


A tight space

by AnnaFan



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: AU, AU as excuse for PWP, Annoying Big Brothers, Dammit it's gone angsty on me, Enthusiastic Consent, F/M, Gambling, Het, Not so tasteful smut, Now with fluffy happy ending, Oops it's gone and got itself a plot, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Tasteful Smut, it will get better i promise, talking dirty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-31
Updated: 2016-03-16
Packaged: 2018-03-09 20:43:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 21
Words: 59,817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3263747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnnaFan/pseuds/AnnaFan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU - Eowyn is sent to Ithilien by her brother to get her away from Edoras and Wormtongue.  Promped by Sian making an off-hand remark about Rangers in tight spaces, then adding that this was just what she wanted to take her mind off her migraine.  So here it is, something to take Sian's mind off her migraine.</p><p>The AU-ness is totally gratuitous and simply there to make the plot bunny work!  Now with added plot!  A multi chapter epic of smut, angst (viewed with a certain detachment), gambling and the odd battle, taking us all the way through to the Houses of Healing.</p><p>At long last - it's finally finished... Sniff...  I feel sad now.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sian22](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sian22/gifts).



It still made Faramir laugh inwardly when he thought of the first time he met the Rohir. He'd looked at the figure dismount smoothly from the destrier – lithe, a hint of muscular strength beneath the wiry outline, a touch below middle height. Éomer had written to his brother about the parlous state the court in Edoras was in – manipulated by the man he referred to as “Wormtongue”, a man of dubious loyalties to say the least. And the need to send some of the men loyal to him into exile, to fight with the Ithilien Rangers until such time as Éomer had consolidated his position and could call them back to the Riddermark. But what in the Valar's name was Éomer doing sending him a mere lad, not yet come to manhood?

Then the lad took off his helm. Long – really long – golden hair cascaded down to a slender waist, and the lad turned to look at him through grey-blue eyes beneath delicately arched brows. And suddenly Faramir's world contracted to a tiny point centred on the slim figure before him. The lad was a lass. And Faramir's heart was no longer his own.

She marched straight up to him, and held out a rolled up piece of vellum. “My Lord, my brother, Éomer, third marshal of the Riddermark, has sent me to serve under you.” She stood to attention, straight as a quarter-staff, as Faramir read the letter.

_Eomer, Third Marshall, to Faramir, Captain of Ithilien, greetings._

_As you know, it is from time to time necessary to send to you some of my loyal soldiers who have attracted, shall we say, too much attention from Wormtongue. Usually this is due to them demonstrating greater loyalty to Théoden Cyning than the worm is prepared to countenance. However, added to this, my sister has attracted a further level of danger: the worm seeks her in ways which speak of the most despicable dishonour._

_But, her need for sanctuary notwithstanding, do not doubt for one moment that I have sent you a worthy addition to your Ranger troop. My sister Éowyn is a shield maiden of the Mark, a skilled horsewoman, and probably the best with a sword that I have ever seen._

The letter then moved on to some political observations of the general state of affairs in Rohan and its surroundings, and a request for an update on the situation in Gondor. As he read it, his mind not really taking in the finer details, Faramir's mind whirled like a spinning top. This woman was his friend's sister, she had been ill used by the man who now held the reins of power in Edoras, he, Faramir, was now her commanding officer and comrade in arms. The decision was made in an instant. In fact there was really no decision to be made, only one course of action available. He pushed to the very furthest recesses of his mind his acknowledgement of her beauty, and vowed to treat her as he would any other recruit.

The following two years had passed quickly. Éowyn did indeed prove to better than any he had seen with a sword. She also took to the use of daggers and throwing knives with a natural flair: for archery on the other hand she never gained more than a basic competence. Predictably, just about every young single Ranger (and, to Faramir's annoyance, more than one of the married ones) tried their chances. They were politely but firmly rebuffed. She seemed to have a knack for simultaneously seeming not to notice their advances and carrying on as if nothing had happened, while also indicating that she knew only too well what they were up to, but chose to give them a face-saving easy out. 

The only occasion on which a soldier (not one of his Rangers; a messenger from Minas Tirith) tried to make a physical advance towards her, she turned into a wild berserker. It took three grown men to haul her off. The messenger was half dead and had to be strapped over a pack horse to be returned to the Citadel. Later that night, however, Faramir came upon Éowyn sitting alone in one of the caves in Henneth Annun, wineskin in her slender white hand, half-pissed and shaking with fear. He had carefully alerted her to his presence, then sat down as far from her as the narrow space would allow, and waited in patient silence. When she had finally managed to bring herself to talk, she had talked till dawn, and he had simply sat and listened.

On the whole, Faramir found himself valuing her presence enormously, as an able soldier, a shrewd tactician, a comrade in arms, and gradually, since that long night through to the grey dawn, a friend. She was easy to talk to, widely read (which surprised him, having previously had only her brother as indication of what to expect of a noble-born Rohir), and, when not in one of her maudlin moods, was possessed of a lively wit and sense of humour. And if at night, lying alone on his narrow bed, Faramir's thoughts sometimes took a different direction, by dint of will alone, he squashed these meandering imaginings.

The only point at which their friendship took a wobble was about a year after the incident with the messenger. She formed a liaison with a soldier from his brother's troop, a handsome (but to Faramir's mind rather superficial) young man. The embryonic courtship fizzled out after a month or so. Faramir carefully refrained from passing comment, but Éowyn sensed his mood nonetheless, and angrily took him to task for passing judgement. He would not so much as bat an eyelid at the amorous adventures of the men, she pointed out, so why should he judge her? Could he not be glad for her, that she had at last set the events of Meduseld so far behind her as to be able to try to find joy in the arms of a man? Faramir apologised, genuinely embarrassed that she had sensed his mood, even if she had attributed it to the wrong motives. He could at least acquit himself of double standards. But he had a feeling that she would find the real source of his discomfort even more annoying, so he did the best he could to keep her from realising that in fact he was desperately jealous.

Still, that was several months ago, and their friendship had relatively quickly reached the easy comradeship from before Éowyn's brief fling. They ate together, shared a tankard of ale together, talked together, laughed together, fought together. Today, they were out on a routine scouting mission, high on the slopes above Henneth Annun. They slipped through the trees silently and efficiently, signalling their movements with silent hand gestures, but more often than not anticipating the other's plans before any gesture need be made.

Mid morning, the clouds which had been roiling round the high peaks started to descend, blanketing first the passes, then the rocky moraines and finally reaching the tree line. Like a thick cloak, grey mist seeped over the pines and spread its tendrils between the tree trunks until Faramir and Éowyn could barely see more than twenty paces in front of them. The fog muffled sounds – the rattle of a stone dislodged by a boot was dull rather than sharp, the snap of a twig blunted by the thick gloom. As sound was dulled, so in contrast time seemed to stretch out. In the featureless grey, without the movement of the sun, it was hard to tell if minutes or half hours were passing. And even to Faramir, who had tracked through these woods for more than a dozen years now, directions became uncertain, distances stretched or contracted in uncertain ways.

The tendency of the fog to muffle sound was nigh on their undoing. They were almost upon the orc troop before they knew it. Faramir crouched in the undergrowth, signalling on his fingers... twenty, no, twenty-five. No chance of engagement then: they were simply too many. And they lay to the downhill side, so no chance of a quiet retreat back to Henneth Annun for reinforcements. Éowyn crept through the ferns until she could kneel beside him.

The orc troop had stopped for a moment. Their leader was a large, scarred brute. Next to him was a small, longer-limbed creature. Sharp eyed and keen of hearing, a typical tracker. He sniffed the air, face contorted with suspicion. Faramir laid his hand on Éowyn's arm. It seemed, though, that the fog came to their rescue. The heavy, clammy air seemed to conceal their scent. Rising cautiously, Faramir drew Éowyn to her feet and signalled behind him. A huge, gnarled old oak stood a few feet away, bearing the blackened scars of a lightning strike. The strike had cleft the trunk in two, hollowing out the interior, with a narrow gap in the bark half covered in ivy concealing the space behind. 

Carefully, placing his feet toe first and gently transferring his weight, Faramir made his way across the handful of steps to the tree. He held the ivy aside, and guided Eowyn into the tiny space, before squeezing through the tight cleft in the bark and wedging himself into the gap, flush up against her. He let the ivy fall back into place, and tried to concentrate on stilling his breathing. They had got there not a moment too soon. There was a clanking of rough iron armour, and the orc troop moved out, following the trail right past their hiding place, wending their way up hill into the mist.

They stood in the narrow space for nigh on an hour after the orc troop had moved past, knowing that their enemies had a keen sense of hearing and excellent trackers. At first, Faramir's whole attention was centred on the ever fainter sounds of the retreating band. He tried to picture in his mind's eye what path they might be taking, but since he had, in truth, slightly lost his bearings in the mist, he could not be entirely sure of their route. Gradually, the scuffing of feet and chink of arms became so distant that he wasn't sure whether he genuinely heard sounds or whether his imagination was filling in the sensations for him. Eventually, imagination or no, he found himself blanketed in the thick eerie silence that the fog brought with it. The only sound he could hear was Eowyn's soft breathing, and even then he wasn't sure how much he heard and how much he imagined based on the way each breath ruffled the hair just below his ear.

As the minutes passed, his senses, preternaturally tuned by the near miss, turned from an intent focus on the noises from outside to an equally intent, if not even more intent, focus on the nearer sensations. It started with the huff of Éowyn's breath on the skin of his neck, but increasingly he became aware of the pressure of her body against his back, the warmth radiating from her and contrasting so sharply with the clammy cold seeping through his damp clothes down his front. Her left hand, thrown willy-nilly into the cleft in the tree when they scrambled into their hiding place, was now pressed between the heart wood and his hip, and he swore that even through his tunic and breeches he could make out every single one of her long, slender fingers. His right hand was held still against his stomach, grasping his bow, and he could feel his elbow pressed against Éowyn's arm. And her legs – her legs were moulded to the back of his, thighs pressed against his hamstrings, her body feeling as though it was cradling his buttocks.

The realisation washed over him slowly, almost gently, but inexorably. After two years of denying what he had felt that first moment he set eyes on her, the tide of feelings, having been chased out far across sand flats, now came flooding back, a surging, irrepressible, irresistible force. He felt the desire start low inside him, spreading until every place where he touched her was aflame, every part of him yearned to make contact with her, to wrap himself round her, to lose himself within her, to be engulfed by warmth and flame and need. And he couldn't move – didn't want to, didn't want to lose what closeness he had, but also couldn't. It was as if he were frozen, as if he had been petrified, or turned to wood to become part of the tree in which they hid.

So he stood, motionless.

Her hand on his hip.

Her heat against his buttocks, against the backs of his legs.

Her breath on his neck.

And then she kissed him. The shift in her body was almost imperceptible, would have been so had his senses not been so heightened. The brush of her lips against the back of his neck was barely more than her breath had been. Yet to Faramir it felt as though a ball of lightning had hit him. He let out a low moan. There was a clatter as his bow fell from his grasp, and blindly, his hand reached out and back, seeking hers. He twined his fingers with hers, then, scrabbling in the confined space, try to turn and squirm round. As he turned, her hand, still trapped between the tree and his body, slid from his hip across his arse. She released her other hand to bring it up to his cheek as he managed finally to face her, his chest pressed against hers, his thigh between hers. She slipped her fingers round his head, tangling them in his hair, and pulled his head down towards hers.

He had always imagined (in those imaginings he had not allowed himself, but which had swarmed over him nonetheless, those forbidden, denied imaginings) that their first kiss would be gentle. But this was fire, this was white-hot sparks, this was steel straight from the furnace with no water in which to quench it. Her lips met his, already parted, tongue slipped across tongue, teeth grazed flesh, breath suspended by pure desire.

Her hand dug into the muscles of his arse, and he pressed his leg between her thighs. His hand slid up, and as best he could, he cupped her breast through the leather jerkin. Her fingers slipped from his hair to caress his neck, then run across the bare skin round the collar of his tunic.

“Éowyn.” It took almost superhuman effort to form the syllables of her name, and still it came out as more of a groan than any recognisable speech. In answer, she pressed herself hard against him once more, her lips hot on his, demanding, laying claim to him. _What need has she to lay claim?_ The thought fluttered, only just coherent, across his mind. _I have been hers since the moment we met._

Somehow that half coherent thought coalesced into a need to speak, to articulate. “Éowyn.” Again, his voice was broken, harsh with pure physical need. The words would not come out as sentences, but fell, singly, pleadingly. “What? Why?”

They must have penetrated the haze of want, for she drew back slightly, her hand moving to the small of his back. For a moment she looked up at him, eyes huge and dark, then she rested her head against his chest. “Faramir.” And suddenly, hearing her speak his name, his heart felt as though it had swelled too large for his chest to contain it. “Faramir... I want... I need you. Please?” The last word came out as a question, a plea. He slid his hand to cradle her chin, looking down into her eyes. He still wasn't sure what he read there – desire certainly, but the emotions that went with that desire... She too reached up with her long slender fingers, tracing the line of his jaw, then drawing her fingertips across his lips. Silently, he took her hand, and squeezing through the narrow crack in the bark, past the curtain of ivy, drew her out into the grey twilight of the clearing.

“Half a league down the track... there's an old woodcutter's hut.” Faramir's voice sounded breathless to his own ears. He seized her hand, and together they set off at a half-run down the hill, eventually arriving at the old tumble-down ruin panting and sweating. Faramir pulled Éowyn through the door, his arms around her.

The heat was no less than it had been within their hiding place, but their motions became slow and deliberate as a master swordsmith tempering the white hot blade upon an anvil. Hands reached out and undid laces, undid ties, slid wool and leather from skin, skin which was left shivering in the cold air, shivering but aflame. Gently at last, Faramir lowered Éowyn onto his cloak, all the time holding her gaze with his. They knelt facing one another. He could almost feel her eyes on his skin, as intense as if she were actually touching him, as she took in first shoulders, then chest, then the muscles of his stomach, the V leading down to his hips, the trail of hair leading the way to his cock, nestled amid dark curls. He reached out his fingers. Her body was lithe, strong, with small breasts, and a stomach which swelled slightly then curved back to the triangle of curls, golden to his black. He let his fingers drift over the pink nipple, standing proud in the cold air, and circled the skin around it. Then he let his hand drift down over silky smooth skin, over her hip, round and up the inside of her thigh till his fingers met the curls, surprisingly coarse beneath his touch. Her eyelids closed, her breathing now a low gasp as he gently touched the soft, hot wetness between her legs. So intent was he on this exploration that it was only as her hand curled round his cock that he realised she had reached out. He gasped.

“So soft. The skin there is so soft,” she whispered, and leaned towards him. He caught her in his arms and drew her close, feeling the hot touch of skin on skin, the length of their bodies pressed together. Then they tumbled onto the cloak, her legs parting. For a moment he lay still, cock nudging her entrance, so wet and hot. He was almost afraid to move, afraid lest the mood be broken.

“Faramir.” Again, her voice in his ear. “Faramir. I want you. Please.” And the please almost undid him completely. With a thrust of his hips, he slid his full length within her. She pressed up against him, heat wrapping itself round him, caressing him, drawing him in. He felt the inside of her thighs caressing his hips, his balls brushing the skin behind her entrance. She stretched slender, strong arms around his back and held him against her. Then he drew back slowly, almost the full length of his cock, only to slide within her. Her hips moved with him, to draw him in as he thrust, and ease back each time he withdrew. Her breath and his seemed to come in time with their movements. As he drew back each time, he felt the hot moisture of her spread across him, and each time he moved within her, he was engulfed in heat. Their movements came gradually faster, breath coming in gasps, a sheen of hot sweat spreading across their skin, mingling with the cold dew of the mist.

He could feel the need for release building within him, and slowed for a moment to slide his hand between their bodies. His thumb found the soft folds, and within them the little nub he was seeking. With a steady motion, he began to run his thumb there and back, his skin gliding across hers, coated in the liquid heat. 

“Faramir. Oh gods...” Her voice trailed off, her hips moved against him wildly trying to pick up the pace once more, her hands clutched at his back. Faramir buried himself inside her, and this time she could say nothing coherent, only a long, wordless cry as she clung to him, waves of heat clutching at him, utterly undone beneath him. Faramir looked in wonder at her face, then lost himself too, feeling as if his very soul were falling into fragments and being remade.

He slumped on top of her, completely spent, then, as his breathing steadied, realised he must be too heavy. He rolled to one side, pulling her onto his chest. She felt limp and boneless in his arms, like a contented cat, and when she looked up at him, her face was lit by a gentle smile.

He stroked her long golden hair and kissed her brow. His words were whispered, filled with wonder. “Oh, but I am blessed by the Valar, that they have given me you.”

~o~O~o~

“That's three florins you owe me.”

“You what? They're not even touching.” Anborn sounded sceptical. His brows drew together, a wrinkle forming on his smooth brow.

“They don't have to, you twerp. It's bleedin' obvious to anyone with half a brain.” Mablung held his hand out, fingers beckoning.

“What've you bet on now, my young lad?” Damrod interrupted them. He pushed a lock of light brown hair, peppered with grey, back from his forehead.

“Mablung reckons the captain and the lady have finally got it on,” said Anborn, a slightly petulant undertone to his voice.

Damrod cast his eyes speculatively across the large cave to where Éowyn and Faramir stood, deep in conversation. For a moment, he fancied he could see glimmering cords of light stretching between them, so great was the tension in their stances, the yearning that was evident. “I'd say he's right. Like they say, a fool and his money are easily parted. What the hell did you want to go betting against a dead cert for?”

“She were seeing that bloke from the Citadel when I made the bet,” Anborn answered defensively.

“Oh, what it is to be young and naïve,” said Damrod, shaking his head. “Anyone could see she was only chasing that bloke 'cos she thought she couldn't have the captain. Which I suppose tells you that you're not the only one round here as is young and naïve – for if she'd had half a brain, she'd have seen the captain's been mad for her since the day he set eyes on her.” 

“So,” said Mablung, pocketing the coins, “Who wants to bet on whether he'll make an honest woman of her.”

Daeron chipped in, “Two florins says no. Why buy the cow when you're getting the milk for free?”

“And that's the difference between you and the captain,” said Mablung. “You're an arsehole who only ever thinks with his cock, the captain's a noble gentleman, and he's thinking with his heart.” The group assessed their targets, just in time to catch the captain casting a surreptitious glance at his lady's arse as she turned to reach for more stew. “Or at least, partly with his heart; there's no denying his cock's doing some of the thinking too.”

“Hmm, the captain's father is a right uptight bastard, very keen on the sacred lineage of the Stewards and the glory that was Numenor.” Damrod seemed half lost in his line of speculation. “He'll not want his son marrying a lass from horse country, though he might just about come round seeing as the captain's the younger son, and he's never favoured him much anyway. Three florins says morganatic marriage.”

“Morgy-what?” Daeron interjected.

“Means the marriage is all legal and proper, but any bairns aren't in the line of inheritance,” Damrod explained.

“Well now, I agree the Steward's an uptight bastard, that's for sure,” said Anborn. “But the captain's not just noble, he's a stubborn bastard, as stubborn as they come. Five florins says a proper marriage, not one of those morgy-whatsit jobs.”

“Five? Are you mad?” Mablung looked baffled.

Damrod looked back once more at the couple at the far side of the room. Suddenly, they caught one another's eyes and smiled. Damrod had this uncanny sense of the whole world, all its upheavals and pain, falling away. He was looking at the first mortals to walk the earth beneath the gaze of Illuvatar, untroubled, untouched by anything but their love for one another. He gave his head a little shake to clear it, then spoke again.

“Young and naïve... But sometimes naivety and idealism are the same thing, and maybe you're thinking the same way as the captain on this one, Anborn. I have this horrible feeling I may just have kissed my florins goodbye.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so this was meant to be a one-shot. But I've fallen in love with my gambling Rangers, so it's taken on a life of its own.
> 
> Oh, and apologies - in keeping with the spirit of sheer self-indulgent AU-ness, I'm allowing my characters wildly anachronistic attitudes towards sexual morality and a quite modern vocabulary. 
> 
> The plot will eventually re-converge with canon...

Éowyn let the golden sunlight warm her body. Even the wooden planks on which she lay seemed to have soaked up the heat, and despite their hardness, she felt almost as though she luxuriated in the feeling seeping up. It was the first truly warm day of spring. She rolled onto her side and propped her head on her hand, looking at Faramir beside her. He lay, dozing, flat on his back.

The wooden platform was a lookout hidden high in one of the trees about five leagues from Henneth Annun. Faramir had explained that it was modelled on the descriptions he'd found in an ancient book of lore – a book describing the wooden flets Elves made on the outskirts of their domain. Supposedly, they had been keeping watch, but the day had been warm, the woods quiet and the temptation just too great to resist.

Now languid and relaxed, Éowyn took the opportunity to study her lover. His figure lay there, stretched out before her. The sunlight through the leaves above left dappled patterns on his skin, contrasting patches of cool white and glowing gold. Smiling, she focussed her attention on his face. Long, dark lashes lay on pale skin beneath a broad brow. She thought of how a few tens of minutes earlier, she had brushed her lips along his high cheekbones and angular jaw. At the moment, he had a short, slightly untidy beard. When he had time, he preferred to shave, but Éowyn found that she rather liked him with a beard. The roughness was one of the contrasts she loved – so different from the soft silken dark hair that currently lay spread across the wooden boards. 

She followed the line of his neck, down to deceptively broad shoulders – deceptive because there was not an ounce of fat anywhere, and his lean build led many a man to underestimate his strength. She almost stretched out her hand to run it across his chest, for she loved to feel his hair beneath her fingertips, but resisted for fear of waking him. Instead, she settled for letting her eyes follow every line of his body instead – the taut muscles of his belly, the trail of hair, the V shape of the muscles in his hips, all pointing towards... She felt a smile spread over her face. _Definitely a favourite body part._

A sleepy murmur drew her gaze back to his face. Faramir opened one eye, then squinted as the sun got in his eyes. He lifted one hand to shade his eyes, and caught her looking at him. One dark eyebrow was raised in query. _His eyebrows... How could I have forgotten to inventory his eyebrows?_ Éowyn found her smile broadening into a grin.

“Admiring the view?” asked Faramir, the hint of an answering smile playing round his lips.

_Lips too – just the right shape for kissing._ But out loud, Éowyn contented herself with saying, “Perhaps. But I shall deny the possibility vehemently if questioned. I wouldn't want you getting vain.”

“Even if questioned very persuasively?” Faramir shifted slightly, raising his knee to tilt his body slightly towards her. 

_Oh gods, his cock – the way it lies there, so heavy looking. Just the right size to wrap my hand around it. To feel it come alive and upright beneath my touch._ Éowyn swallowed. “Perhaps I need practice in resisting these torture techniques. You know, so I'm prepared for the worst...”

“The worst?” Faramir's left eyebrow managed somehow to rise even further towards his hairline.

“Definitely the worst. Absolutely terrible. I was reliably informed by my brother before I left that it was a fate worse than death.”

The quirk of a smile disappeared from Faramir's face and he rolled onto his stomach, elbows on the wood, chin resting on the backs of his hands. “That's something we've never really talked about, is it, you and I? How your brother would react?”

The mood gone for the moment, Eowyn rolled back to rest against the warm wood once more. “He would go berserk. Probably kill both of us.”

“Oh.” There was a long silence following this. Eventually Faramir managed to say something else. “I suppose I couldn't really blame him for killing me – after all, he sent you here in part so I could protect your virtue. He told me about Wormtongue, you know.”

Éowyn felt a shiver travel across her body. “Don't. I don't want to be reminded.” She let her head turn so she faced Faramir, only a handspan or so between their faces. “But this is completely different. He threatened to take me by force. You and I... Well, we do what we do because we both want to. And I always thought of my virtue more as a nuisance and a vulnerability than anything else.” She felt her cheeks burn. “Besides which, I'd lost my virtue before...” She ran out of words, looking at him with an anxiety she hadn't expected to feel. Surely he must have realised, that first day in the cottage, all those months back... _What if he hadn't? What if he?_ She couldn't even frame the thought properly.

He reached out with one hand and gently stroked her cheek. “Surely you know me well enough by now to know I wouldn't give a damn about that. All that matters is that you allow me to be yours, here and now. Not what happened before.”

There was a long silence. Éowyn stared back up at the green leaves and flashes of blue sky between, the colours so vibrant they almost hurt. Then Faramir spoke again, a little hesitantly, his words an echo of hers a few moments earlier. “Is this just something we do because we want to? For you, I mean?”

“I... I don't know.” Éowyn saw a look of hurt cross Faramir's face, quickly chased away and replaced by what she thought of as his “commanding officer, give nothing away” look. She was at a loss as to how to explain her feelings. “I haven't really let myself think about it. I don't know how to think about it. The future is all so uncertain, this is such a strange time and place to find ourselves as...” _Why was uttering the word so embarrassing?_ “As... lovers. I mean, we're both soldiers, holding the last line of defence against an enemy so horrible that... On any given day, either of us could be killed. So I try not to let myself think.”

Faramir nodded. For a moment, she saw another flicker of hurt in his eyes. Then, shifting his line of attack, with a sense for the coup de grace she recognised so well from the practice ring, he said, “You say you try not to... but when you can't help but think? What do you think then? Those moments when ignoring your feelings doesn't work?”

_He knows every inch of my body, has touched and tasted every inch of my body – why is it only now that I feel completely naked before him?_ But the practice ring had also taught Éowyn a thing or two: she knew when to counter attack: “What do you think?”

“Do you have to ask, Éowyn?” The way he said her name left her feeling as if she was unravelling completely. He still didn't touch her, but the intensity with which his eyes met hers was almost tangible. Then, as if the intensity was too much to bear, he looked away, gazing up into the canopy. His voice was a whisper when it finally came. “Éowyn, I...”

“Captain Faramir!” The yell echoed up through the trees. Mablung's voice. “Orcs, sir, a largish troop, about a league to the west. Damrod's got the main company assembled in the clearing near the bracken spring.”

“Shit.” The word was muttered under Faramir's breath. Then, “We're just coming, Mablung.” And the two of them scrambled for their clothes.

~o~O~o~

“Permission to speak frankly, sir.”

_Cursed cock of a kinslayer, what now?_ Faramir pulled himself together, and said, as casually as he could manage, “Ah, every commanding officer's favourite phrase. Would you care to let me know exactly what manner of monumental cock up I have either perpetrated or am teetering on the brink of perpetrating, Damrod?”

Damrod swallowed. _That bad?_ Faramir thought. His second-in-command turned scarlet. _No, clearly even worse..._

“It's about you, and your patrols... Your patrols with...”

Faramir waited, one dark eyebrow cocked. _Gods, this was worse than bad, it was... excruciating._ But, Faramir reflected, if there was one thing any CO worth his salt learned early on, it was to wait in silence for your subordinates to dig the trench by themselves. Dig it, and hopefully bury themselves too.

“Well, actually sir, the problem is more the non-patrols with...”

_Oh Valar, Damrod knew!_ Faramir struggled to keep his face impassive.

“You see, the area's dangerous, and we do need it patrolled. And if we know... erm... what you're doing, you and, erm... And, uh, it's not really patrolling, is it sir? And, well, you see, if we know, someone else could work it out. And I'd imagine you'd both be sitting ducks in that hut.” Damrod was warming to his subject matter now, the embarrassed flush subsiding. “If 'sitting' is quite the right word, maybe...” Damrod paused, perhaps sensing a line that he should not step over. He continued, his words coming out in a bit of a rush. “And, erm, without wanting to be forward, sir, but, erm, well there's no other way putting this: I'd guess you wouldn't be wearing your armour.” Fararmir could have sworn he saw the glimpse of a smile on his lieutenant's face, only a flicker and quickly suppressed. _The bastard's enjoying this!_ Damrod's voice cut through his thoughts, Obviously he was taken with his previous phrase. Either taken with it, or so embarrassed he was repeating himself: “And so you would be, well, sitting ducks, so to speak. Or maybe lying ducks.” _Definitely a smirk, the insubordinate sod._ “And then we'd be without a CO, sir.”

Now it was Faramir's turn to swallow. “I see. And what precisely would you suggest as a solution, Damrod?”

“Well, Sir, maybe for the time being, you could do your patrols with young Anborn, and I could patrol with the lady.” He flushed again. “I mean, really patrol, that is. Obviously.”

“Obviously indeed, Damrod,” said Faramir, dryly. Actually, he was quite pleased with the tone of voice he'd somehow conjured up. Cool, collected, as if he had this sort of excruciating conversation every day and wasn't in the slightest bit excruciated by it. _But... But it would mean the end to lazy afternoons with the sunlight casting dappled patterns on her bare skin._ Faramir gave himself a mental shake. _Pull yourself together and stop thinking with your cock._

“Sir, you could always just move her into your quarters. Then you wouldn't need to take risks sneaking around like this.”

_Oh fuck. So much for cool and collected. Damrod's reading my mind._ “I don't think that would be wise, do you, Damrod? Chain of command... favouritism...” Faramir's voice trailed off. _Buggeration, I can't even form a coherent sentence any more._

Damrod looked at him with something which, to Faramir's chagrin, seemed uncomfortably like pity. Or perhaps a certain fatherly understanding, which might just conceivably be even worse. Not that Faramir was entirely sure what fatherly understanding looked like, and certainly couldn't by any stretch of the imagination imagine his father extending it in these sort of circumstances.

“You know, Sir, when I was a green recruit, my CO had a bit of a thing going...” Now it was Damrod's turn to look slightly embarrassed. “Erm, way of the warrior, as the phrase has it, that sort of thing – I mean, I know it's illegal and all that, but it does happen sometimes...” He glanced anxiously at Faramir, as if gauging his reaction. Faramir nodded to show that, yes, he had heard of such things before, and, yes, he was enough of a man of the world not to be shocked. Encouraged, Damrod continued. 

“And, well, it was happening with him and one of the sergeants. And they were pretty open about it, maybe not exactly sharing quarters, but certainly setting up bed rolls next to each other a way off from the rest of the troop. Thing was, it didn't really affect the chain of command as much as you might think. Because they were both damn good soldiers, so there wasn't any favouritism, because it wasn't needed, they both did their jobs and a damn good job it was too. And, well, you've been our CO for years, and we know what you're like. And she's good too – isn't no-one can best her with a sword, and she doesn't shirk from the hard stuff and the heavy stuff.”

~o~O~o~

“So, you see, they all know about us.”

There was only really one word which did justice to Faramir's expression: anguished. Éowyn looked at him and nodded gently.

“You don't seem surprised.” Faramir searched her face for clues, before continuing, “You knew, didn't you.”

Again, Éowyn nodded. Faramir looked at her face, the most beloved face beneath the heavens, and his gut clenched at the thought of what he had to do. Then his gaze lit upon the bruise on her cheekbone, now faded to a dull yellow, a vast improvement on the absolute shiner she had sported a few weeks back when he returned from Osgiliath. A chance blow on the training ground, she'd said.

“Your eye,” he said, sudden insight dawning.

She gave a wry smile. “Yes, but you should have seen the other guy.”

It all made sense – Damrod's sudden secondment of Daeron to his brother's troop. The two of them must have passed on the road without seeing one another. “What did he do?” Faramir asked.

“He made some cheap remark about us engaging in the way of the warrior, and asked how closely we copied it.” Faramir raised a questioning eyebrow. Éowyn made a harrumphing noise, as if to say _Don't make me say it_ , then said it anyway. “He asked if I let you give it to me up the arse.”

“And managed to give you a black eye into the bargain.” Faramir's face showed a cold fury.

“Yes, but I broke his nose and knocked out two of his teeth before I laid him out cold.” Éowyn grinned. “Damrod transferred him down to Osgiliath, and put me on shit-shovelling duties for the next four days.” But then her grin faded. “You're worried, aren't you? Worried about the other day.”

“The orc troop. What if they'd come past the tree we were hiding in, and we hadn't seen them to alert the company. Or they'd heard us and...”

~o~O~o~

“Valar, it's like some sort of cheap mummer's tragedy.” Mablung sounded quite put out. The others followed his gaze across the arched cave. In the alcove he customarily occupied while doing paperwork, Faramir sat, idly tapping his lips with the quill he was signally failing to put to use. In the last half hour, none of them had seen him make so much as a single mark on the parchment which was supposedly destined for his brother, bringing him up to date on Easterling and Haradrim troop movements in the area. Instead, his attention had alternated between a melancholic fascination with the inkpot in front of him, and surreptitious, longing glances towards Éowyn, who sat at the other side of the cave.

The group assessed the other protagonist of the mummer's tragedy. She was trying to fletch arrows. It was a task for which she had very little skill at the best of times, and this clearly wasn't the best of times. There was a sudden squeak of pain, followed by a Rohirric obscenity which (having had occasion to ask her about in the past) they recognised as involving an anatomically highly unlikely act between one of her pantheon of gods and the god in question's horse. Her paring knife had slipped and she'd jabbed her finger. Clearly, she was paying about as much attention to her task as her commanding officer was to his. She glanced over towards him, only to find him already looking at her, his attention drawn by her cry of pain. As fast as jerking a hand away from a hot coal, both of them looked away, he to fix his attention once more on the inkpot, she to contemplate the hideously ill-constructed fletches.

“Bloody hell, it's like a succession of wet Mondays,” said Mablung. “What in the name of Morgoth did you want to go putting the fear of Manwe into the pair of them for, Damrod?”

“All I wanted was for him to start paying attention to doing proper patrols, not for him to break things off completely. I even suggested he just move her into his quarters and be done with it.” Damrod sounded aggrieved that Mablung could hold him responsible.

“Now who's being a twit about it? You know he's a bloody fool for being honourable in all things. As soon as you'd so much as hinted he wasn't doing his duty to the full, of course he was going to leap to the half-arsed conclusion that the only decent thing to do was to break it off with her.”

Damrod grunted.

“Was that you admitting I'm right?” said Mablung.

“Go fuck the pack donkey,” came the response.

“Still, at least there's one saving grace.” Anborn interrupted his two NCOs. “At least you transferred Daeron, otherwise he'd be banging on about how we had to pay him his bleedin' florins.”

“And thinking of bets,” added Mablung, as he caught sight of another “hot coals” moment between the Captain and the Rohir, “How about we open a book on how long the stupid arse is going to be all noble and decent for? I reckon two weeks, tops. A florin says I'm right.”

“Like I said before, he's stubborn as fuck,” Anborn replied. “Four weeks. But I stand by my original bet. He'll marry her in the end. Proper job too.”


	3. Chapter 3

“Poor bastard. She's knocking seven shades of shite out of him. I'm beginning to feel a bit sorry for the bloke.” Anborn sat on a tree stump watching the bout. Even with blunted swords with the points filed down, the man had to have felt that last blow.

“Nope, no sympathy,” said Mablung. “Arrives here fresh from the Citadel, all full of himself, ready to 'show you pretend soldiers how a real one does it.' Told him I'd pair him off with the best sword we had, see how he got on.”

“You also said you'd let him start out with a woman. Led him up the garden path right and proper with that one.” Anborn gave his sergeant a hard stare.

“Well, if he was too thick to realise that the two were one and the same, that's his look out.”

“You meant to mislead him, and you did.” Damrod's voice came from behind them. Once he'd got over the shock, Mablung reflected on the fact that like all decent long-serving officers, Damrod seemed to be capable of materialising out of thin air at just the wrong point in a conversation. And (as his next words confirmed) making you regret what you'd just said. “Of course, it's just as well the lady didn't hear you say that – otherwise you'd have been next in line for a pummelling.”

The new arrival was beginning to realise he was outclassed with a sword and decided to resort to a mixture of blade and gutter fighting techniques. Éowyn having pushed him onto the back foot, he reached out with his left hand and grabbed a handful of her hair which had come loose from its leather thong, pulling her in too close to deliver another stroke. Éowyn gave an angry grunt of pain, then twisted her wrist, bringing the heel of her hand down. The hilt of her sword struck him hard in the groin. He turned pale, then green, and crumpled to the ground in a heap.

The three watching Rangers all gasped in sympathy, Anborn involuntarily crossing his legs.

“Shit!” said Mablung, adding, “For the Valar's sake, don't tell her I may have let the bloke think he was getting an easy warm up with me. I don't fancy being next in line.”

They looked across the clearing to where Éowyn stood, nostrils flared, looking down at her victim with utter disdain.

“We've got to get her and the captain back together somehow,” Anborn commented. “I'm not sure how much more of this I can take. Her mood's been blacker than the dungeons of Angband ever since you stopped them shagging.” He gave Damrod an accusatory look. 

“You've got to admit the lad's right. So far we've managed to give her new recruits and preening, overweening pricks like that one to take out her frustration on, but sooner or later she's going to find a reason to lose it with one of us. And I dunno about you two, but I'm rather attached to my crown jewels.” Mablung's tone left Damrod in no doubt that he too held his superior responsible for the current situation. The jilted, sexually frustrated, highly dangerous shieldmaiden situation.

But Damrod wasn't taking responsibility. “You two are just trying to adjust the odds in your favour. Just because I bet it would be a matter of months rather than just days or weeks before his reserve crumbled.”

“Alright then, fix her up with someone else in the mean time. Kill two birds with one stone. She stops feeling so bloody grumpy and it makes him jealous enough to try to win her back,” Anborn offered.

“You really know bugger all about women, don't you?” Damrod stared at Anborn in disbelief. “She doesn't want just anyone. She wants him, you plonker. She may not realise it herself yet, but there's more to this than just having an itch she has to scratch.”

“Well, whether it's just an itch or true love the likes of which hasn't been seen since Beren and Luthien, you owe it to the rest of us to at least try to placate her. A friendly fatherly shoulder to cry on about how the captain's thrown her over.” Mablung wasn't letting Damrod off the hook that easily. But Damrod hadn't been a soldier for nigh on twenty years without learning a thing or two about how to counter attack.

“Father figure? To talk to about her love life? Are you daft? No, what she wants is a tankard or six of ale with a big brother figure while she tells you how bloody awful men are – present company excepted - and what a bastard he was for jilting her and how much she hates him.”

Mablung looked daggers at Damrod, realising he was well and truly out-manoeuvred. 

“But if she hates him, she'll _never_ get back together with him, and we might as well not have bet at all,” Anborn interrupted in a slightly whiny tone.

“She doesn't _really_ hate him, you twerp. She just thinks she does.” Damrod shook his head at the naivety of youth. Surely even at the age of twenty, he had not been that daft.

 

~o~O~o~

“That bloke Damrod fobbed off on us was a prize arse. Think you could stop him sending us any more like him?” Boromir raised his tankard of ale in salute to his younger brother.

“Daeron? Damrod made the decision while I was away – away here in fact,” Faramir answered. _Please the Valar, let him drop this topic._

“Did you ever find out why he sent the bloke our way.”

“Fight between two of the soldiers.” Faramir really didn't feel like discussing the matter further. The conversation was far too likely to stray into areas he was doing his best to forget. “Daeron was the one who started it, so Damrod decided he was the one that should be moved.” Faramir shifted to the attack in an attempt to distract Boromir. “You say 'was' – isn't he here any more?”

“Man was a bloody liability. Petty squabbles, fights – though not within sight of any of the officers, seemed to have learned that lesson at least, constantly teetering on the brink of insubordination. In the end I gave him the Steward's shilling, sent him off as oarsman third class in one of Imrahil's galleons.”

Faramir felt a satisfied grin spread across his face, and quickly tried to hide it by taking a long pull of his beer. Not quickly enough, though: Boromir homed in on the look with the quickness of someone who'd been reading his brother's face for over thirty years now.

“Damrod transferred him, but he'd done something pretty major to piss you off, hadn't he? Come on brother, spill the dirt.” 

Boromir regarded Faramir from grey eyes with a steady gaze that made Faramir realise why his own troops complained so bitterly about his ability to read their sins on their faces. _Family trait_ , he thought, remembering unsuccessful attempts to lie to his father about childhood apple scrumping expeditions. _Deflect his attention, somehow._

“No, you were right, it was just that the man was a complete arsehole. Like I said, the final straw was an incident while I was away, but I was glad to see the back of him.” Faramir took another swig of beer. _Steady, don't overdo it. The last thing you want is to let your guard down now Boromir's curiosity's piqued._

“Still, at least it's put a bit of a smile on your face. You've been a right miserable bastard since the moment you arrived. Are you going to tell me what's up?” That gaze again: curiosity mixed with concern.

“Just a lot on, orcs on the prowl, worrying Haradrim and Easterling movements – and we both know what that leads to... too much bloody paperwork.” Faramir gave what he hoped was a nonchalant shrug.

Boromir grunted. “You know what, next time we go to see father, we should go out on the town. I know you're all up your own arse about paying for it, but swallow your pride for once. You could really do with getting laid.”

Faramir couldn't help himself: he jolted as though someone had jerked the stool he sat on. Boromir raised his eyebrows and assessed his quarry.

“Ah, that one's hit the mark dead centre, hasn't it? What have you been up to, little brother?” Then Boromir's face fell, a look of shock slowly spreading over his features. “You haven't been partaking of the warrior's comfort, have you? I mean, I know you say you don't like visiting tarts, but surely that's not because...”

Faramir was dumbstruck. Unable to speak, he settled instead for shaking his head furiously. Unfortunately it seemed that Boromir mistook this for an excessive and therefore insincere protestation of innocence. 

“Bugger me... Oh fuck, bad choice of words.” Then Boromir paused, a second wave of shock apparently hitting him. “Bloody hell, tell me it wasn't that arse Daeron. Tell me you've got better taste in catamites than that.”

“For the Valar's sake, you've known me since the day I was born, Boromir. I don't do blokes, you know that.” Faramir found his voice rising, annoyance with his brother's stupidity threatening to explode.

Boromir held his hands up in supplication. Then, slowly at first, but with a deep rumbling noise that echoed round the room, he started to laugh. Laugh until tears began to roll down his cheeks.

“I'm glad you find this funny.” Even to his own ears, Faramir's voice sounded pissed off beyond measure. The fact that he failed to share the joke seemed finally to penetrate his brother's mood. Boromir frowned, as if trying to piece together bits of an intricate wooden puzzle. Finally, the crease between his brows smoothed out, and he gave Faramir a sly grin.

“If it's not a catamite, that narrows the field down to just one candidate – that Rohir lass.”

Faramir glanced down at his beer, trying to avoid his brother's gaze, but once again he wasn't quick enough.

“You've got the hots for her and Daeron was shagging her,” Boromir concluded, triumphantly.

“No,” said Faramir, his voice abrupt. He kept his eyes fixed on the tankard.

Boromir gave a low whistle. “Then it must have been the other way round – you were shagging her and he had the hots for her. You sly old dog, you kept that one quiet, didn't you? There was me thinking you desperately needed to get laid, and all the time you've been screwing our friend the horselord's sister.” Boromir frowned once more as he assessed this latest thought. “Bloody hell, Fara, you're a braver man than I am. He'll cut your balls off and feed them to his horse if he catches you.”

“Just fuck off, will you?”

“Ah, and there goes your customary eloquence. I've really hit a nerve, haven't I?” Boromir looked at his brother, then to Faramir's surprise, stretched out and placed his hand on his arm. “So how come you're so bloody miserable? Has it all gone tits up?”

“In a manner of speaking. Between the incident with Daeron and me almost missing spotting a troop of orcs because I allowed myself to get distracted, I realised it couldn't go on – it messed up discipline, it interfered with my decision making, it just wasn't... professional.”

“Valar, you really are the biggest prude I know.” Boromir took another mouthful of beer. Then he looked again at his brother, who was still staring down at his own tankard. “Oh shit, forget I said that. I'm sorry.”

“Morgoth's balls, Boromir, not pity. I can handle you laughing at me, but not pity.”

“No, it's not that... well, it is that... but... You've really fallen for her, haven't you?”

Faramir pressed the palms of his hands over his eyes, wishing he could take shelter in the blessed darkness. His tongue would hardly obey him, but he did manage to mutter his answer. 

“Yes.”

~o~O~o~

Faramir woke feeling as though an oliphaunt was sitting on his head. But although his head might ache, his heart felt lighter than it had for several weeks – almost a month, in fact – since that last carefree afternoon on the flet with Éowyn. Boromir had plied him with tankard after tankard of ale, and refused to allow him to sulk in mulish obstinacy. And gradually, over the course of the evening, Faramir had told him everything, or almost everything: his first impression of the woman with hair like spun sunlight, the long period of trying to ignore what he felt, his jealousy, the fact that they had finally snatched a few months of happiness, then the fateful day when only luck had stood between him and the gravest dereliction of duty imaginable, and finally his decision to end things between them.

Boromir had listened patiently (unusually patiently for him). When his brother's long tale of seemingly unrequited love, brief passion and lament for his loss had finally come to an end, he had contented himself with a brief but pithy comment: “You are a daft bugger, you know. Damrod was right. You should just have moved the lass into your quarters.”

He sat up, feeling as though his head was going to split in two, then swung his legs gingerly over the edge of the bed. _Upright... good start... now keep your balance while you get your breeches on..._ Finally satisfied that he was half-way presentable, Faramir drew back the curtain on the alcove and stepped into the mess hall beyond. 

Boromir greeted him with a steaming mug of the hot drink from the Harad that he favoured in the mornings. Normally Faramir turned his nose up at the bitter brew, but this morning it felt like the only thing that would keep him on his feet. The mug and a large bowl of porridge sweetened with a dollop of honey (he put some in the drink too) left him feeling slightly more like himself. Just as well: Boromir, true to form, was apparently entirely unaffected by the previous night's beer.

Breakfast finished, Boromir took him over to the chest where he kept the collection of maps of Ithilien and the surroundings of Osgiliath. He spread a large map across the nearby table and weighted the corners down. Then he produced a bag of polished pebbles.

“Grey for Haradrim, black for Orcs, red for Easterlings,” he said. Between them, drawing on the reports Faramir's rangers had drawn up and the intelligence some of Boromir's scouts had pieced together, they carefully laid out the pebbles on the map to get some sense of the enemy's troop depositions. It took some time to finish, then the two brothers stepped back and looked at the picture revealed. Boromir gave a low whistle.

“That looks bad, very bad,” he commented.

“That looks like an attack within the next fortnight at the outside,” Faramir replied. “An attack which they're probably going to win.”

“And then they sweep over the bridge, breach the Rammas Echor, then straight across the Pelennor. Shit. We're fucked.”

The brothers stood in silence contemplating the bleakness of the situation. Then both spoke simultaneously. 

“Unless...”

“The only thing we can do...”

They stopped and looked at one another. Then Faramir finished his sentence. “We have to destroy the bridge.” Boromir nodded.

“But how?” asked Boromir. “It's not as though we can pull the thing down gradually over a course of weeks just on the off chance that this attack's going to happen. We can only do it as a last resort, when we know that it's either that, or lose Minas Tirith.”

Faramir sat down heavily on the bench against the wall, and put his head in his hands for a moment or two while he thought. “It's on the piers of the original bridge – with wooden towers and then trusses in between to hold the planks on top. If we take out enough of the wooden pegs on the tower nearest the western bank, the bridge will still stand provided we don't send too many troops over at any one time. But we attach ropes to the supports near the base. Then if the worst happens, we use a team of draft horses to pull the supports out when the time comes.”

“That sounds good to me. But we'll have to defend the eastern shore somehow while we demolish it. And that leaves whoever's on the bridge with no means of retreat.”

“Swim?” said Faramir. His tone of voice clearly indicated that this was a forlorn hope.

“Aye, it's only an outside chance, but at least it's not outright suicide. We'd better make preparations – get the engineers on the job, organise draft horses...” Boromir paused, and though his face remained impassive, his eyes gave away his underlying anxiety as he added, “Send word to father.”

“You'd better write that dispatch. He'll take it better from you. Might even believe it's militarily necessary. What about my Rangers? Bring them down here as reinforcements?”

“Not if you think they can remain in Ithilien undetected. They'll be more use to us continuing their work watching the troop movements and trying to harry the enemy with ambushes in the woods. You'd better send word to Damrod explaining the situation.”

“Not in any detail – at the moment I don't trust that any messenger is going to make it through safely. But I'll get him to stay put. I've got a cypher set up that we can use for this sort of message.” 

“And for Elbereth's sake, get word to your lass while you're at it. We may not come out of this one alive. At least tell her you've been a prick and you're sorry.”


	4. Chapter 4

The messenger swung himself rather stiffly down from his horse. It had taken two and a half hard day's riding to get here, to this lonely outpost midway between the garrison at Cair Andros and the hidden stronghold of Henneth Annun. He handed the sealed parchment to Damrod, who broke the wax, then frowned.

“Thanks, lad. Go and see to your horse then come inside for a bite of something to eat.”

Gesturing to Mablung to follow him, Damrod hurried through the postern gate to the interior of the small guard tower. Éowyn gave Anborn a puzzled look; he shrugged, as if to say _How should I know?_

Inside the chamber which took up the whole width of the small tower, Damrod sat down with the message, a scrap of blank parchment, a quill, and a small, leather-bound folio. Mablung looked at the message and frowned. He wasn't a scholar by any stretch of the imagination, but he did know his letters. Yet the message looked like complete gibberish to him. He watched, fascinated, as Damrod wrote down each letter, checked in the leather folio, and wrote a second letter below. Gradually, a message which was comprehensible emerged beneath the gibberish. However, as the meaning became clear, Mablung wasn't sure he was any the happier for knowing. An imminent threat of attack on Minas Tirith, a desperate plan (unspecified) for defence, a low likelihood of the captain surviving, that seemed to be the gist of it. And the Rangers were to stay put and not get involved – that rankled even more.

The message deciphered, Damrod sat back and rubbed his eyes.

“Bloody hell, that's the worst news I could have imagined. In fact, even in my nightmares I don't think I've imagined anything that bad. And we just have to sit here and do n'owt.” He picked the original message up. “Hang on, there's another scrap of parchment here, all sealed up. Oh fuck, it's for the lady...” Damrod eyed the sealed letter. Mablung felt his lieutenant's foreboding spread to him, like some sort of coughing sickness. This was not likely to be a happy, carefree love billet, not by any stretch of the imagination. Damrod held it out to his second-in-command. “You'd best go and take her this.”

With a sinking feeling, Mablung took the parchment and headed out to Éowyn. He hated this – he'd always had a soft spot for her, and (after Damrod forced him to spend an evening drinking beer with her and offering a brotherly shoulder to cry on) had really become quite close to her in the last few days. He just bloody well hoped this letter gave her some sort of hope. It occurred to him that if the captain couldn't bring himself to write something nice, he wouldn't need to die in a hopeless defence of the bridge – Mablung would run him through himself.

Éowyn disappeared to find some peace and quiet to read the letter. When she returned some time later, her face was pale and drawn, and her eyes looked a little red.

“Where's Damrod? Faramir's letter said he'd fill me in on the details he couldn't put in this letter.” Her voice was uncharacteristically unsteady.

“I can probably do that,” Mablung answered. “I was there when he worked out what was in it.” He told her the content, pausing for a moment over how to phrase the final bit. He decided there was no real way of sugaring the pill, and explained that Faramir didn't rate his chances of coming back as particularly high. The moment the words were out of his mouth, he could have kicked himself for an utter fool. She looked completely stricken. Why hadn't he just left that bit out?

She stood staring down at the parchment in her hands. Eventually she spoke. 

“The messenger. Presumably he couldn't come over the bridge, not if there are troops mustering in large numbers on the eastern side.” 

“No,” answered Mablung. “He'll have come across at Cair Andros.”

Éowyn nodded – she had a good idea of the lie of the land at least as far as the river, though the western bank and the land running south towards Minas Tirith was something of an unknown quantity as far as she was concerned. “Would the troops at the garrison let me cross there? And how long a ride is it to Osgiliath?”

“Well, if they won't, there's a ferry man plies his trade there too. For enough silver, he'd take you across. From here to there, two days' ride at least, I'd say. Though Windfola's a better steed than that nag the messenger arrived on.”

“Shit, I haven't any silver at all. Spent my last month's pay on repairs to my saddle.” Éowyn's brows knitted together.

“You know the captain's orders are to stay here, don't you?”

“Bugger that for a game of soldiers. Do you really think I'm going to stay here?” asked Éowyn. It was clearly a rhetorical question.

“Hang on, I'll help you get some stuff together,” said Mablung.

~o~O~o~

Faramir was directing the engineers when a lone horseman came careening across the bridge, throwing up a cloud of dust as he reined the horse to a standstill.

“Five companies of Haradrim and another three of Easterlings, backed up by several large troops of orcs – on the move this way. Won't take more than a few hours to reach the eastern bank, Sir. And that's just the van – many more following.”

Faramir nodded to the man. “Rub your horse down, and grab some food and an hour's rest, then join the company here on the west bank. Borlas – inform the Captain General of the troop movements and ask him to meet me here with the defence force. Hatholdir – do you think you can finish up weakening the supports and get the ropes attached within the hour?”

Hatholdir stood to attention, and indicated that he could. “As for when we'll be confident that we can take the bridge out completely, that may take longer. Can you hold them till I give the signal?”

“We can do no more than try, but we will try with every last ounce of our strength.”

Faramir walked to the middle of the bridge, seemingly to take stock of the situation, but actually to buy himself a few moments alone to think, and to try to shake off the fey mood which had seized him. He had felt unsettled since waking in a sweat in the early hours of the morning, his rest disturbed by the strange dream. “Seek for the sword that is broken... The halfling forth shall stand.” What manner of premonition was it? He was fairly sure that he dreamt truly. This was not the first time he had had these prophetic dreams. But it was also possible that his mind played him falsely – that this close to the stronghold of the enemy some sort of witchcraft was at work. It was with a sense of relief that he finally saw his brother approach at the head of the main troop.

Several hours later, Faramir felt as though he had stepped into the fires of Angband. Boromir had set his defences very cleverly, making the most of rubble and ruined walls, and the approach to the eastern end of the bridge was very well defended. But it was a war of attrition. Every man they lost sold his life dear: a score or more of the enemy would go first. But the enemy had men a plenty and did not care whether their lives were spent like pouring water onto desert sands.

Then a dark foreboding took him. Looking round, he saw the fear on the faces of his comrades, and a grim realisation dawned. This was not a continuation of his earlier fey mood: this was something they all felt. He moved forward to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with his brother. 

The enemy troops drew to the side, seeming to shrink in stature. Whatever darkness was abroad, even the servants of the dark one felt it. Then, through the smokes of battle, figures on horseback loomed, black-cloaked on black steeds, and Faramir felt as though his heart had been seized by a hand of ice encased in a gauntlet of steel. Boromir faced them, sword held in a guard position before them.

“Do you come to parley, or to continue your unprovoked attack?” Boromir spoke, his voice ringing out, and Faramir wondered at his brother's strength, that he could speak so levelly in the face of such terror. Only long years together told him that beneath the surface, Boromir too felt fear such as he had never known.

The lead horseman drew his own sword from its scabbard with a smooth, silent gesture.

“Foolish sons of a foolish old man, guarding an empty throne. Thrice foolish – the two of you for seeking to defend the crossing when all is lost, and he for sending his sons to certain death. Die, and despair, knowing that Gondor falls.”

Almost involuntarily, Faramir cast a glance over his shoulder towards the land of his birth. It was as well he did, for fortune favoured them at least with some tiny measure of hope – out of the corner of his eye, he saw Hatholdir signalling that the teams of heavy horses were ready to pull the bridge supports away. As his brother took another step forward Faramir turned and gave the answering signal. The ropes jerked tight, and for a moment Faramir thought that all their effort had been for naught and that the bridge would remain intact. Then, with a creaking, groaning noise, several of the crucial supports came free from their places and the deck of the bridge behind them began to buckle as the wooden towers holding it up crumpled.

“Boromir,” Faramir cried. His brother turned and realised what had happened. Instantly, he raised the great horn to his lips and sounded the retreat. The troops ran from their positions, hastened on their way by a hail of arrows from the enemy, and jumped headlong into the water. Faramir and Boromir lingered just long enough to see that all of the men had either hit the water or died trying, then both ran to the brink of the bridge and dived.

The cold water closed over Faramir's head, swallowing him up into a reedy green darkness. He kicked out, trying to put as much distance between himself and the archers before surfacing. For a moment, weighted down by the chain mail, he thought he had stayed under too long. As his lungs came close to bursting, all he could think of was a woman's beautiful laughing face, and hair the colour of the sun. _If I must die here, then at least I will die thinking of her..._ Then with a gasp, he broke the surface. An arrow splashed harmlessly just to his left, and he struck out towards the western shore, feeling every last pound of the armour, straining his muscles as much to stay afloat as to make forward progress.

 

~o~O~o~

“Where the bloody hell's the shieldmaiden got to?” Damrod stomped into the tiny mess hall in the guard tower. “We move out in half an hour, up to Henneth Annun, and I haven't seen hide nor hair of her for the last couple of hours.”

Mablung braced himself for the impending explosion. “She's gone to Cair Andros, to the river crossing. She's going down the west bank to Osgiliath to be with the captain.”

“WHAT?” bellowed Damrod. “You told her what was in that message? What if she gets captured on the way. You could have compromised the whole bloody thing. You...” He jabbed his finger against Mablung's breastbone, “You fucking stupid fuck-witted fucking fuckwit, you could be responsible for the fall of Minas Tirith.”

Anborn stood quietly to one side, trying to blend in with the scenery. He couldn't help but be impressed. He didn't think he'd ever heard the word “fuck” used so many times in the space of a single breath.

Mablung answered quietly and evenly. “As could we all, if we get intercepted on the way to Henneth Annun.”

“Fucking hell, if I catch up with her, I'll have her flogged for desertion.”

“C'mon, Damrod, give the girl a break. You know what was in that letter from the Captain.”

“No, because I didn't see the bloody thing, did I? Go on, enlighten me, what was in it.”

“Well, I didn't see it either. What I mean is you and I can both take a pretty shrewd guess at what he wrote.” Mablung's voice changed as he tried to mimic, rather less than successfully, the cultured tones of the captain. “ _My darling dear heart, I'm probably going to die, I love you, I'm sorry I behaved like an idiot, remember me kindly_. There wasn't a chance in hell that she was going to stay here after getting that letter, was there?”

Damrod grunted, the way he did when he knew you were right but was damned if he was going to say so in as many words. In any case, Mablung had to concede, he was only half right: Damrod was spot on about the additional danger posed by Éowyn heading off to Cair Andros. It doubled the chances that someone who knew something of note might be captured: someone who knew that Boromir was now on to the enemy's imminent plans of attack.

“I'm sorry, I should have thought about the risk of capture before I told her. I probably deserve to be flogged along side her.”

“Too bloody right. You do. Aiding and abetting desertion. You're on latrine duty for the first two weeks we're up at Henneth Annun.” Mablung gulped. The worst duty by far – carrying pails of shit for miles to dispose of them far enough away from the caves that no-one would work out where they'd come from. And doubly demeaning since NCOs usually weren't expected to do that duty. 

However, the thought of his sergeant carting buckets of shit round the landscape seemed to mellow Damrod slightly. He continued, “But I'm trusting that the captain's shrewd enough that he hasn't told us everything. He'll have told us what we need to know, not the exact details of what he's up to down there.”

“Which makes me think you can guess.”

“Probably, but I'm not telling you, not now you've demonstrated that...” Damrod paused, then enunciated each word separately, though fortunately with a reasonable lack of venom, “You're... a... complete... fucking... idiot.” 

Mablung took a deep breath. He let his shoulders slump as some of the tension drained out of him. 

Anborn (who really didn't have much instinct for self preservation) decided to make a somewhat ill-advised attempt to lighten the mood.

“At least we know that the bet's done and dusted, one way or the other. Either he dies and... well, I guess in that case we just retrieve our stakes. Or he survives, they shag...” He counted on his fingers... “Four weeks, that means I've won.”

Mablung turned to Anborn, a gleam of cold triumph in his eye. “ _You're_ not collecting anything, mate. Éowyn needed money to pay the ferry man at the crossing. I gave the whole pot to her.”

“You did what? Aiding and abetting, and you gave her our money to do it?” Anborn's wrath returned. “Make that – oh, four weeks seems to be the nice round number of choice in these parts right now – four weeks of shovelling shit.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Queef Queen for pointing me at a discussion of whether it was possible to swim in chain mail. To my surprise, apparently it is!


	5. Chapter 5

The afternoon sun fell on her, relentlessly. The sky was a steely grey, a haze of days of oppressive heat. Éowyn felt a bead of sweat trickle down her spine. Impossible to scratch beneath her mail. She shifted in the saddle. Two days' hard riding, from more or less day break to dusk – even for one bred in the saddle, it came hard. And all the while, nagging at her mind, a voice saying _What if I am too late?_ And worse still, the voice saying _What if I am in time – in time to watch him die?_

The dirt track wound its way along the riverside, sometimes within spitting distance of the stream, sometimes separated from it by yards of bushes and trees. Anduin was slow, sluggish, brown. The summer sun had left it low against the banks, and the exposed earth and dried up tributaries smelled of stagnant standing pools. In the distance, over the mountains, she could see thunderclouds building, seething towers of clouds almost yellow against the grey haze, tops spilling out into anvils. Surely it would rain this afternoon? But it had felt like this yesterday, and the day before, and as yet no rain had come. The closeness of the air brought a headache. Even Windfola's proud head seemed to droop, ears twitching against the onslaught of vicious flies which seemed to be the one life-form which thrived in the heat and humid air.

Éowyn recalled the discussion she'd had with an elderly, grizzled sergeant, back at the garrison at Cair Andros. He'd described the lie of the land to her, and going off his description, she was fairly confident she must be within an hour or so of the outskirts of the abandoned city. The day and a half since leaving the garrison had given her time to think – far too much time to think. And of course, most of her thoughts had been about the captain. Damn him – why had he had to make things so complicated? While they snatched the odd afternoon here and there, she'd been able to kid herself that there was nothing more to it than lust, opportunity and those moments of boredom which are the flip side, in the life of any soldier, of either hours of tedious training or brief periods of frenetic activity and danger. But then he'd decided he had to put duty ahead of her, and she'd been taken aback by her own reaction. She was by turns furious, jealous (it seemed she was merely the mistress and the army his wife), furious again, and then, as the realisation of what she'd had and lost finally began to sink in, completely bereft.

She'd also tortured herself with the memory of the look on his face the day before when she'd tried to be cool and off-hand about what she felt for him. She'd been taken off guard by his line of questioning, and had, in more or less a reflex response, ducked the issue entirely. Sometimes she felt as if she'd had a lifetime of either losing those she loved or of having her love used as leverage to threaten her (how well she remembered Wormtongue telling her in graphic detail which suicide missions he could arrange to have Éomer sent on). It was now ingrained, almost second nature to cover up her feelings. But when she did her customary trick of making light of her emotions, for a fleeting moment Faramir had looked so hurt. Then he too had covered up how he felt. She recalled gossip sessions with the other Rangers: from what she'd heard of his father, he too had had all too harsh a schooling in not letting anyone get too close. Apparently the only exception to this was his older brother. 

And yet – and yet... On the flet that afternoon, he'd been about to say something momentous, when bloody Mablung showed up... No, not bloody Mablung. Mablung had been very kind to her these last few weeks. So what if it was partly self-interest. Yes, she knew about his motives for trying to get her back together with the captain – though she couldn't really hold it against him, not when he'd let her have the pot to pay for the ferry man. Not that he'd told her, but she had a pretty shrewd idea how Mablung came to have some ready money to hand, he who was always daft with his silver for a few days after payday, then flat broke for the rest of the fortnight.

But the captain – he'd been about to say something. And she was pretty sure what that something was... Then the stupid idiot broke off with her the next day. And he'd somehow managed to look so stricken by it all that by the end of the conversation, she'd wanted to take his face in her hands and kiss away the lines of worry and tell him it was all alright – tell him this after he'd broken it off with her. How the hell did he have that effect on her?

Anyway, now she knew she was right about what the something was. He'd said as much in the letter. He loved her. She had a feeling that in better circumstances, she might have felt giddy and almost sick with happiness. But with circumstances as they were, she mostly felt sick with guilt and worry. And, bizarrely, at odds with the rest of her feelings, an undercurrent of anger. He said one thing – but acted entirely another way. If he really meant what he said in the letter, why had he put her through the pain of the last month? Yes, she knew what he'd _said_ by way of explanation: duty, honour, country before private feelings. But that being so, why should she believe this sudden protestation of love? Words were easy – actions so much harder. Where were his actions to match his words?

And yet here she was, acting, she thought with a rueful smile. Riding for two and a half days solid, in dereliction of her own duty (gods, there would be hell to pay next time she saw Damrod). And acting on the strength of words in a letter, what's more. What kind of a fool was she? A worried, overly-involved fool, it would seem.

She looked around her. Just ahead were the first broken walls, the outer ramparts of what had once been a mighty city. These strange southern folk loved their cities of stone. The ruins of an imposing gatehouse stood beside the walls, a broad avenue of well-dressed limestone flags: no streets reduced to muddy mires in the winter here. On either side rows of what had once been gracious town houses. But all abandoned, decaying. Give her the living, thriving town that was Edoras, wattle-and-daub, thatch, muddy streets and all.

It took maybe another ten minutes before she was stopped by soldiers guarding the approach to the bridge. In the distance, she could see a group of men on the bridge, firing arrows from the cover of the bridge towers, facing a large force on the opposite shore. She was consumed with anxiety and a desperate need to get close enough to the action to see what was going on clearly. She resorted to lies.

“I've ridden from Captain Faramir's Rangers in North Ithilien, by way of the garrison at Cair Andros. I bring a message for the captain from his second-in-command, Lieutenant Damrod.”

To her immense relief, the soldier waved her through, though his words weren't encouraging. 

“You'll be lucky if you can deliver it – that's the captain and his brother with the troops on the bridge. And Lieutenant Hatholdir and his men are about to pull the supports out from under the bridge.”

Éowyn's heart lurched, and she urged Windfola on. With a clatter of hooves she headed down the boulevard which must once have flanked the river above quaysides and piers. She reined her horse into a tight circle to slow him before he collided with a train of heavy draft horses harnessed to thick ropes. Despite the noise of her arrival, the attention of the troops around her was elsewhere, focussed intently on the bridge, and Éowyn followed their gaze. There, on the furthest stretch of the bridge, were two lone figures facing a group of tall, fey horsemen cloaked in black. 

Éowyn felt fear like none she had ever felt before, like a black miasma flooding through her veins, chilling her heart and mind alike. How could the two men stand before these riders of death? With a sickening lurch she recognised the characteristic stance, the way of moving, of one of the two men. It was Faramir. Windfola must have sensed her urgency, for he took a step forwards towards the shore. Then she saw Faramir glance over his shoulder. The officer at the head of the team of draft horses waved his arm in what must have been a pre-arranged signal. Faramir gestured back, then turned back to the other figure. _His brother, it must be,_ Éowyn thought. Then she watched as Boromir raised his horn.

Suddenly it was as if all the hellfires of Angband of ancient legend seemed to burst forth. The men on the bridge scattered, leaping into the water amidst a hail of arrows from the surrounding enemies, Faramir and Boromir the last to leap headlong into the water. The officer before her yelled, and the teams of horses strained forwards, halting, digging their hooves in, whipped on by yelling, frantic drivers, the ropes taught as bow-strings. Then with a creak and wrenching cracking noise, the supports of the bridge snapped and pulled out of their joints, leaving the deck of the bridge tumbling into the water, raining flotsam onto the heads of the desperately swimming men, men already pelted by black-fletched arrows. 

Éowyn watched in desperation as singly and in pairs, men were picked off, or battered by great logs, sinking, never to be seen. Near beside herself, she tried to make out Faramir as heads bobbed to the surface for moments, took gulping breaths, then disappeared again. But all the heads, dark haired, slicked black by the waters, looked the same. Then to add to the carnage, the ranks of the army on the opposite shore parted, and she watched as hideous trolls pulled great ballistas to the edge of the water. With the harsh cries of the speech of the enemy ringing in her ears, she watched in horror as balls of sharp iron spikes and burning pitch were loaded into the siege engines and launched into the river, and further across.

“The garrison!” A great shout went up from the troops near her, and she wrenched her attention from the water for a moment, glancing to her left. Two of the barrels of flaming pitch had landed in the garrison that defended the western bank, the wooden parts of the structure instantly catching fire. She watched in horror as a group of the men on the battlements screamed, their garments catching fire. They fell, tumbling head over foot, into the sluggish waters below. Then Windfola skittered sideways as a missile loaded with murderously sharp iron fragments landed mere feet away. Two of the men driving the horses and one of the animals fell instantly. Éowyn felt a wave of nausea as she realised the heavy horse's guts had been sliced open, green loops of intestine tumbling out.

“We must sound the retreat, sir,” one of the men shouted to the officer.

“No, we stand our ground and protect the retreat of the men from the bridge. Get some archers onto the top of that wall there and return fire.”

_Thank Béma someone is keeping his head,_ Éowyn thought. She called out. “Sir, I come from Ithilien – one of Captain Faramir's Rangers. Let me get the heavy horses back up away from the shore, give you less things to worry about.”

The officer grunted his assent, and Éowyn spurred Windfola forward, grabbing the headstall of the lead horse.

“Cut their harnesses free,” she shouted to the men tending the ropes, and as soon as the horses were cut loose, she started to tow the lead horse back up the bank, all the time casting anxious glances over her shoulder, trying to see how the men in the water fared. Then, to add to the clamour and confusion, a sharp, cold, cutting wind suddenly blew up. Éowyn looked at the sky. The lowering clouds of earlier had now coalesced into huge thunderheads, and this was the cold wind that preceded the deluge. Sure enough, within minutes, huge drops of rain started to fall – not just rain, but large hailstones. The horses skittered, and the first clap of thunder sent their eyes rolling back in their heads and their ears flattened against their manes.

And each time she looked back towards the river, there seemed to be fewer men swimming – two score heads, a hundred paces away, then two dozen, maybe seventy paces, then a score... Having finally got the horses safely out of range of the burning barrels and grapeshot, she returned to the river bank. Barely a dozen heads now, but getting closer to the shore with every stroke. But with every stroke, their progress slowed, and suddenly the obvious truth dawned on her – they were trying to swim in their chainmail. She scanned the heads, trying desperately to make out the individual features of the men in the water. Then, finally, she spotted him, labouring towards the shore, barely able to get his mouth clear of the water at the highest point in each stroke.

She stood, frozen like a stone statue, unable to do anything except watch. At last, strength all but spent, he got close enough to the shore to stand, shoulders finally clear of the surface. But to her horror, he turned round and scanned the river behind him, then struck out clumsily into the deeper water once more. At once she saw the reason – a lone swimmer, maybe five or so yards away. But five yards could have been as many leagues, the state both of them were in. _Bloody typical of the man – he survives, then throws his life away trying to save one of his men. They're both going to drown._ She saw him reach the other man and start to tow him back by the scruff of his neck. A couple of times they went under, but then, finally, Faramir was able to stand, and half carried, half dragged the man into the shallows. _Typical of him, and I wouldn't have him any other way..._

Éowyn found herself running into the water, helping to tow the man to the bank, then, as he collapsed, flinging her arms round Faramir. Rivulets of water cascaded down both of them as her lips met his. Her arms went round his back, and she found herself almost holding him up as he sagged, exhausted, against her body. She felt the water soak through her clothes. She couldn't have cared less. Again, she kissed him, and this time he responded, clutching at her, his lips parting, his tongue hot within her mouth.


	6. Chapter 6

She kissed him as if the kiss was the only thing that stood between them and the end of the world itself. But a voice interrupted them.

“So this is your Rohir lass?” A deep bass, sounding exhausted, but with a trace of grim humour. She let go of Faramir and turned to see a face, older, more lines, at one and the same time familiar yet different. His brother, she realised.

“Sir!” It was the lieutenant. “Sir, Captain-General, they've set fire to the garrison. Most of the party on this bank have retreated already, there's only a couple of companies of archers trying to protect your retreat...”

Boromir seemed to take stock of the situation for the first time since emerging from the river. Now he'd got past his initial amusement at finding his brother in a passionate embrace (and that having only just escaped drowning: clearly there was more to his shy, bookish brother than he'd given him credit for) he realised Faramir was close to collapse, and that the Rohir lass had in fact been holding him upright as well as kissing him passionately. There was a second survivor, lying on the bank at Faramir's feet. To his other flank, a third man crouched on his hands and knees, retching up river water. He looked up and down the bank. 

“Manwe protect them,” he whispered, bringing his right hand up to his breast. “Some retreat – four of us, that's all!” He paused for a moment. “Do we have horses?” 

“Aye, Sir, if we double up,” said Hatholdir.

“See to it that someone strong and competent looks after this man...” He pointed to the prostrate body beside Faramir. “Beregond, isn't it?” His brother nodded.

Hatholdir quickly sketched the situation. “We've pulled back to the small watch tower on the outskirts of the city, out of range of their ballistas. There's a barn and stables we can shelter from the storm in. Hopefully, between the storm and nightfall, the enemy won't try to cross the river now. We can regroup overnight, then send a sortie back tomorrow at dawn to assess the situation and look to defend this bank.”

Hatholdir signalled and several men came forward to help. Éowyn put a foot into Windfola's stirrup and swung herself up and into the saddle. Reaching down, she caught Faramir round the forearm, hands locking to wrists as if in a warrior's salutation, only in earnest. Mustering her strength, she tugged him upwards while he used what little strength he had left to scramble up. She managed to pull him onto Windfola's back where he sat, clinging to her, dripping wet. With a nudge of her hands, she urged Windfola on, and set off behind Hatholdir and his men.

~o~O~o~

Alone at last in the narrow stall, though all too uncomfortably aware of the fact that anyone could hear them easily over the wooden partitions, Éowyn drew Faramir close to her. 

“Take your clothes off, for Béma's sake. You're soaked and shivering.” She let go of his hands, and started to strip her own clothes off.

“What are you doing?” Faramir whispered.

“What does it look like? You're half frozen to death and this is the quickest way of warming you up.”

“But...” His voice trailed off. _Oh gods_ , thought Éowyn, _It's his bloody anguished I-must-do-the-right-thing look again._ She raised an eyebrow and waited for what was to come. It didn't take long. “The letter... I meant everything I said. But... it still doesn't make this right. We shouldn't – I mean... I do... I love you. But tomorrow I have to ride to Gondor, and there's a task I will probably have to undertake for my father, and chances are I won't be coming back for a long time, and it will only make the pain of parting worse if we...”

In the time it had taken Faramir to stumble through this speech, she'd got the rest of her own clothes off and had bedded down on the straw, rolled up in several blankets and her cloak. She'd been relieved to note that though he claimed to be interested in doing the right thing, his eyes had lingered reflexively on all the right parts of her body once she was naked. But he was still standing there, looking as though he didn't quite know what to do next.

“Oh, for fuck's sake, Faramir,” she hissed at him, “When I said I needed to warm you up, I meant literally warm you up.” She looked him up and down – he'd now got as far as dripping small clothes and looked distinctly like a half-drowned cat. “Apart from anything else, after the amount of time you've spent in that bloody river, when I finally get you out of your small clothes, I am expecting to find everything shrunk to the size of my pinkie, perhaps flanked by a couple of raisins. Just get out of your wet clothes and under the blankets with me.”

Faramir's mouth formed into a slightly shocked “O”, but he finally seemed to get the message. He peeled off the rest of his dripping garments, making a half-hearted attempt to wring them out, then hung them over the wooden partition. Then (to Éowyn's relief) he finally did as he was bid and crawled into the makeshift bed with her.

“Ah, fuck, you're like a bloody block of ice.”

“Sorry.”

“Oh shut up and just give me a hug, will you?”

Faramir's arms wrapped round her, and she let her own hands run the length of them, from wrists to shoulders, then round to his back. Frozen as he was, he still felt bloody good. Muscles and sinews beneath her fingers, and that wiry strength implicit in the way he held her tight against him. But he was also clearly in no state to do anything – she could feel him shaking, those deep, uncontrollable shivers that presage the drift into the cold slumber that is death's harbinger. She started to rub at his skin vigorously, trying to get the circulation going, and wound her legs about his in an effort to get as much of her skin as possible into contact with his. She knew from talking to the wise women who tended to the sick in Edoras that everything hung on that moment when he stopped shivering. If by then his skin was warm to the touch, it meant the shivers had stopped for the right reason; if they stopped and his skin was still cold, it meant his body had simply run out of energy to continue the fight. With a grim determination, she continued the massage.

In the flickering half light from the lamp which swung from a bracket on the wall, she could make out Faramir's face. It was drawn and pale, and his eyes had that slightly glassy look of one who is starting to lose the plot – and his eyelids were starting to droop. _Keep him talking till he starts to warm up._ The voice in her head even had the timbre of one of the goodwives back home.

“Faramir, what did you mean about a task your father would want you to undertake?”

Faramir blinked at her in confusion, then seemingly with some effort, managed to pull his attention back into the present moment. “Last night – the strangest of dreams.” His voice was a bit slurred and unsteady. “I sometimes have dreams... closer to visions.”

Éowyn stiffened. Did he really think this, or was he starting to hallucinate? She redoubled her efforts to restore his circulation, and decided that hallucination or prophetic vision, all that really mattered was to keep him awake and talking for the time being.

“So – the dream?”

“A voice commanded me to go to a place called Imladris – to seek for a broken sword and a hafling – and Isildur's bane.”

“That sounds more like too much ale with your brother than a prophesy to me.” Éowyn couldn't help herself.

At this, Faramir gave a low chuckle, which ended in a bit of a coughing fit, but Éowyn didn't care – she could have happily danced a jig at the thought that he still had the strength and the presence of mind to laugh.

“I suppose it does seem a bit insane. But I can assure you my brother and I did not overdo the ale, not on the eve of a battle. What do you know of the history of Numenor and Gondor?”

“Wasn't Isildur an ancient king?”

“The second king of Gondor. His father, Elendil, was cast up on the shore after fleeing the inundation of Numenor. I dream of that sometimes, too... the flooding of Numenor. A great wave, sweeping everything before it...” Faramir's voice trailed away, and Éowyn looked at his face again, only to see his eyelids had closed once more. She shook his shoulder quite roughly.

“So, Elendil and Isildur – how long ago was all this?”

Faramir's eyes opened again, sleepily. “Elendil fell alongside Gil Galad in the battle of Dagorlad at the end of the second age... so just over three thousand years ago.”

“Bloody hell.” Éowyn couldn't stop herself from blurting out a response. She couldn't imagine history stretching back that far. Eorl the Young had been, what, five or so centuries ago... That was the start of history, if you were from the Riddermark... But then she noticed Faramir's eyelids were drooping again. _Keep him talking._ “Why should all this matter?”

“I don't know – I talked to Boromir about it at length this morning when we broke our fast. He doesn't understand it either. The sword that was broken – that must be Isildur's sword. But we don't know what Isildur's bane is, or halflings, or indeed what manner of place Imladris is. But our father is immensely learned in lore, so we agreed that if either of us survived today, we should go and consult with him. But if the prophecy is a true one, then I suppose I will have to go to Imladris, where ever it is.”

Somewhere in the course of this conversation, Éowyn realised that Faramir's skin no longer felt clammy and cold beneath her fingers. His hands and feet were still freezing, but his body had at last begun to warm up, and the shivering was easing, easing in the right way. Without realising it, she heaved an enormous sigh of relief.

“Anxious to be rid of me?” said Faramir, a certain wry tone to his voice.

“What? No! No, I just realised you'd finally warmed up a bit.”

“Does this mean you'll finally let me sleep instead of cross-examining me about ancient history?” Éowyn lifted an eyebrow, and Faramir gave a half-smile in response. “Don't think I don't know what you've been up to. I've had to do it for my men before now – keep them talking to stop them freezing to death.” He uncoiled one of his hands from behind her back, and Éowyn felt him draw his fingertips across her cheek. She turned her head slightly to press against his touch, and was repaid with a gentle brush of his lips against hers. “Thank you,” he whispered very softly. Then he gave an enormous yawn. “Can I shut my eyes now?” Another faint smile crossed his face, and he nestled against her, breathing beginning to slow.

~o~O~o~

She woke to see the half moon through the small window high in the wall, just below the eaves. It was a waning moon, and she realised it must be well after midnight. She shifted slightly, and felt Faramir's chest against her back, no longer cool and clammy, but radiating heat. Suddenly it dawned on her that she had never slept with him before. All their... encounters... “dalliances” (she smiled at the thought that this was the sort of word Faramir would use)... Anyway, whatever name you cared to give them, they had always taken place in snatched half hours in daytime. This feeling of being cocooned in a small, snug world of their own was entirely new. It was a nice feeling, lying close against his warm body, listening to his slow steady breathing, in time with the gentle rise and fall of his chest. His arm lay wrapped loosely round her waist

Drawn by the comfort of his body, she moved closer, only to feel him stir. He rolled towards her, still deep in slumber, and she realised that his body temperature was not the only thing that had recovered from the cold water. His cock pressed into her buttock, unmistakably firm. She couldn't help but recall the ribald conversations of her comrades about “morning glory” - it seemed that “morning” was something of a misnomer and could in fact mean any time in sleep. She couldn't stop a smile spreading across her face. Then all of a sudden it was as if her body caught up with her mind, overtook it and over-ruled it. She was naked, skin against his skin, not just the whole length of his body in contact with hers, but the whole length of his cock too, hard and promising. Desire flooded through her, a warmth, a searing heat and wetness growing between her legs, blood rushing through her veins to leave her heartbeat throbbing at the juncture of her thighs. 

_He needs rest, he's said he doesn't want this._ She tried to shift away. But his arm tightened round her waist, and he murmured something in his sleep. She felt herself pulled back into contact with his cock. _Oh Béma, a month is way too long. Oh, mother of the earth, I know just what I want to do with that..._ And oh, the aching emptiness, the emptiness he could fill. As if to undermine still further her rapidly failing resolve to let him slumber, she felt his hips move against her. Then she heard his voice, laden with sleep, but at the same time suffused with a radiant happiness.

“Nienna's mercy, what a way to wake.” His breath stirred against her hair. She rolled over to face him, wrapping her thigh over his hip. “Oh Éowyn, my beautiful, brave Éowyn...” He pulled her close and brought his lips down on hers. 

Eowyn wrapped her fingers in his hair, pulling his head against hers. The kiss was almost too much to bear, filled with an burning need, a desire to fill the empty yearning space of the last month, the lost month. His lips, dragging across hers, his tongue, the feel of his skin on hers. She rolled onto her back, pulling him over on top of her, as if she had to have him there, had to twine her long legs about his slim hips. She ran a hand down his spine, then across his flank to come to rest on his buttocks, pulling him in close against her, closer still.

“Neither heaven's high vault, nor the rich earth below, nor the encompassing ocean is as beautiful as you.” His voice was only a whisper, but yet so full of a yearning intensity. Then his mouth found hers once more, and Éowyn was lost in pure sensation. 

The press of skin on skin. The roughness of a calloused palm drawn across a nipple. The brush of stubble against a sun burnished cheek. The feel of planes of muscle tensing between broad shoulders. The weight of his body on hers. And that need. The need for the length of him, for that heavy thickness, buried deep within her. The need to know he felt her enveloping liquid heat. The sound of his want, ragged, harsh, breathless, wordless noises lost in her skin, in her hair. The fullness of each thrust. The teasing loss of each retreat, bringing with it a burning desire for his return. An ever growing tension, coiling tight in her loins, growing and growing, encompassing her whole body. Then release – not gentle and sensual, but raging, overwhelming, blinding. All sense of the world lost, all sense of self lost with it. And afterwards, a complete unravelling – lying still, gasping for breath, pulse racing and roaring, unable to frame even single words.

How many minutes passed Éowyn was not sure. Eventually, her breathing steadied enough that she managed a noise – a long drawn-out, utterly inarticulate sigh. There was an answering, equally muffled noise from Faramir, his face now buried in the valley between her breasts.

“Oh Valar, if I have died and this is Manwe's place of rest, then I have died a happy man.”

 

~o~O~o~

 

The morning sun through a chink in the eaves struck him full in the face. _Dammit, I could do with another hour or so..._ Reluctantly, Boromir rolled over and cast his cloak to one side. Time to go and rouse the lovebirds. He made his way to the other side of the barn, peering round the wooden partition. To his surprise, he found himself consumed by an unaccustomed embarrassment.

He hadn't really seen her properly in the half light, dressed as she was in armour, a helm upon her head. But now, as she lay in sleep, he realised how incredibly beautiful she was, a beauty that seemed to snatch his breath away. His brother lay with his cheek pillowed on her breast, his dark hair spread across the pale smooth skin of her shoulder. He was cradled in her arms, her gold hair flowing like a cloak around them both. But even more than her beauty, the thing that took his breath away was the expression of peace on his brother's face. _How many years is it since I saw the lines of worry around his mouth, on his brow, smoothed away like this?_ But at the same time as he was moved by his brother's expression, he was assailed by conflicting emotions. _I shouldn't be here..._ Feeling like some sort of voyeur, he retreated back round the wooden partition, then called his brother's name.


	7. Chapter 7

Boromir took a sidelong glance at his brother. Faramir was quiet. Boromir suspected he was probably in a state of total confusion. On the one hand, from what he'd heard (before he stuffed the folds of his cloak in his ears in embarrassment) that was one hell of a reunion. On the other hand, it looked more than possible that he wouldn't see the Rohir lass again for months, if not the best part of a year. Poor bloke probably didn't know whether he was on his arse or his elbow. Clearly, he needed his brother to cheer him up a bit.

“I like your lass,” he said.

Faramir's head jerked round in surprise.

Encouraged by any sort of response, Boromir continued. “Of course, she's way out of your league. Don't quite know how you did it. Mind you, although I always had you down as ever so scholarly and bookish, when it comes down to it, you're not as shy as you seem, are you?”

Faramir regarded him levelly. “Is this meant to be helping?”

Boromir had the grace to look slightly shame-faced. “Meant to be... but clearly I'm failing.” He floundered around for the next words, then just decided to come clean. “Normally, teasing you helps a bit.”

Faramir gave an irritated snort.

“Well, at least I know you well enough to know that when you're reduced to making inarticulate noises, it means you're really, really pissed off. If you were only a bit pissed off, you'd explain why what I'd said was so stupid in a single sentence that went on for five whole minutes and still made an annoying amount of sense.”

Boromir risked another surreptitious look at his brother, and caught just a quirk of a half-smile. “Come on, you know you want to talk about it. So the two of you are back together. Are you going to admit you were a stupid arse ever to break it off with her?”

Faramir shook his head. “Just give it a rest, will you?” But Boromir could tell from his tone of voice that his heart wasn't in the admonishment.

“I mean, beautiful, brave, prepared to desert and ride half way across Ithilien just to be at your side, and spend silver she hadn't got in the process... I wish I could inspire that sort of loyalty in that sort of woman. I'm still wondering how you did it... I mean, for that sort of devotion I'd be expecting you to be hung like one of the blokes in those pictures – you know, the dirty picture collection of old Alcarin's that we found in that room in the palace back when we were teenagers. And I'm pretty damn sure that's not actually anatomically possible.”

“Gods, Boromir, you've got a bloody one-track mind. Has it not occurred to you that I'm interested in her for other reasons? That maybe she likes me for other reasons?”

“What's wrong with having a one-track mind? I mean, if it was only pure and virtuous 'other reasons'...” Boromir conjured up a rather sanctimonious voice. “Then surely you'd just be holding her hand and likening the way her eyes sparkled to Elbereth's stars sprinkled across the firmament, or whatever rubbish it is you read to send you to sleep. Actually, no, you read it for fun. It would send me to sleep in double quick time...”

Boromir's voice tailed off as he finally took in the storm clouds building on his brother's face. He back-tracked rapidly. “Sorry, sorry! Morgoth's balls, Fara, I'm only teasing. Of course I know she means more to you than that. And I wasn't joking when I said I liked her. I talked to her while we ate that crappy porridge the corporal served up this morning. She's sparky, and brave, and funny.”

A few moments passed. Then Faramir said, “What did you mean, 'had to spend silver she hadn't got'?”

“Ah, err, she borrowed it from one of your Rangers. Needed it for the ferryman. It's all right, though, I gave her enough to pay him back – and to get her back across the river. Figured there was no way her pride would let her mention it to you. But if you do get back to see her, for the gods' sakes don't let her know I told you.” Then Boromir's eyes took on a twinkle of mischief again. “After all, it wasn't like I was making her a loan. More of a gift to my future sister...”

Faramir made a vague choking noise.

“Oh, come on Fara. I know you all too well. You are no doubt full of the most embarrassing, awkward, unbelievably, despicably, disgustingly... honourable intentions ever known to man.” Boromir's face split into a grin from ear to ear as he watched Faramir blush a deep shade of scarlet. “And believe me, I don't envy you the task of breaking that particular piece of news to our father...”

~o~O~o~

Éowyn stood to attention, her face impassive, eyes fixed on a point in mid air somewhere a few feet behind Damrod's left shoulder. To say Damrod was raging would be an understatement.

Anborn tried not to look up from his bowl of stew. A few days earlier, he'd been amused and fascinated by Damrod's explosion of “fucks” in shouting at Mablung. But this... well, this was a fury so strong it wasn't funny. The phrase “desertion in the face of the enemy” had cropped up, and Anborn felt sick – it had been dinned into him as a raw recruit that this was, in some circumstances, considered a capital crime.

Eventually, sentence was passed, and Anborn was more than relieved when it turned out to be a month of double duties: picking up the lion's share of the more unpleasant chores round the hidden stronghold (when not out on patrol – it was made clear that there would be no let up in her normal duties). Things like cleaning and oiling armour, hauling water up from the pool below, scrubbing out cooking pans. And when the month was over, she was to take over from Mablung on shit-hauling duties: what's more, take over for the next three months. 

Éowyn nodded wordlessly, then, still in silence, handed over a rolled parchment. Anborn tried to make out the seal on it – he was pretty sure it was the captain's. Damrod gave the tiniest of acknowledgements, then stomped off to his own quarters, carrying the news (whatever it was) with him. As the wooden door slammed behind him, Anborn saw the shieldmaiden's shoulders slump slightly. Then he felt Mablung kick him under the table. With a nod of his head towards her, Mablung got up from the bench he was sitting on and went over to her.

“I told you there'd be hell to pay,” he said.

“Like I couldn't have worked that out for myself,” was the reply. “Actually, on the whole that didn't go as badly as I'd feared it would.”

“Too short of men to put you in the clink for any length of time, said Mablung, adding with a soldier's characteristic black humour, “And too worried about what the captain would do to hang you. And, talking of that, where is the captain?”

“Gone to the citadel to see his father. Then probably on some highly dangerous quest. As if facing death once at Osgiliath wasn't enough. Man must have a thing for danger.” Éowyn tried to make light of it, but Mablung could hear the waver in her voice.

He decided to play along with her feeble attempt at humour. “Well, yeah, from what I've heard about your brother's temper, I think we can safely say the captain's got a thing for danger.” This managed to get a half-smile from Éowyn.

“Those papers were Damrod's temporary field-commission to captain,” she added. Mablung noticed her swallow, hard. For a moment she struggled to control her expression, but then her face smoothed over again, became impassive. Then, almost as an afterthought, she pulled out a small leather pouch. “Your money – it's all there...”

Anborn, as usual, thundered in where even a Maia might have feared to tread. “So you and the captain... How did you get on?”

Mablung could have sworn he saw a look of exasperation cross Eowyn's face before yet again she produced that impassive expression. It occurred to him to wonder what exactly her life had been like back in Rohan before she arrived in Ithilien, that she kept all her feelings so tightly controlled. Now he came to think of it, the only time he'd seen her look unguarded, happy without a hint of reserve, was for the month or so after she and the captain got together. But now she was back to impassive and controlled – though he thought he saw just a flicker of a wicked grin flit across her face as she finally answered Anborn.

“Well, I helped fish him out the water – he and his brother and the other two blokes were half drowned.” The faint grin disappeared. “Still, that was a lot better than most of them – the rest there was no 'half' about it.” She paused and took a deep breath. Mablung recognised the look – trying to batten down the images in her mind's eye. “Anyhow, the bastards on the far bank were raining sharp iron blades and flaming tar barrels down on us, so we retreated to a watch tower on the outskirts of the city and regrouped. And – well by then it was getting dark. So we made a big camp fire to warm everyone up, hot soup, sang some songs lamenting the fallen... that was it really, till the captain and his brother rode off to the Citadel the next day, and I headed off back here with Damrod's field commission. Captain said if I was going to bugger off in contravention of direct orders, I might as well make myself useful as a messenger.”

Anborn looked quite deflated at this news. But (perhaps fortunately for his continued wellbeing) before he could say anything stupid, the door opened, and Damrod poked his head back into the chamber.

“Oi, shieldmaiden. Get your arse off to the armoury and start hammering the dents out of that salvaged armour.”

~o~O~o~

It was about three hours later when Mablung cautiously entered the armoury, carrying a couple of bowls of steaming stew, half a loaf tucked under his arm. Éowyn looked up from the boulder she'd been using as a makeshift anvil on which to hammer away at the various bits of steel plate.

“Béma, you don't expect me to eat that bread after it's been next to your sweaty armpit?”

“Gives it a bit of flavour it desperately needs,” Mablung replied. “Still, if you don't want it, all the more for me.”

“You wish...” She held out a grubby hand, and Mablung passed her one of the bowls, before tearing the bread in two. “Thanks.”

They settled down side by side on the floor, and demolished half the stew. Eventually, cautiously, not sure whether to broach the subject, Mablung spoke.

“So, the captain's not coming back?”

“Well, I don't know for sure. Depends on what his father decides. But probably not.”

“And... well, how are you?”

“All right so long as I don't think about it.” Mablung glanced over at Éowyn. He could see her eyes glittering unusually brightly. She gave a kind of half-sniff, then wiped her nose on her sleeve. “Got to keep things in perspective. No point getting hung up over a man when I'm always going to come second to his duty.” She tried for a half smile, and failed. 

“I don't think the captain thinks of you as second best. Just that – well, there's no choice about the duty thing, not at the moment, not with things the way they are,” said Mablung.

“Yeah, I know that really. We talked about that the morning he left to go to the Citadel. He said he was sorry, he didn't mean for me to feel second best. And I told him not to be daft. I'd seen the battle the day before, seen what we were facing. All of us come second best to that.” She looked up at Mablung. “Four of them – that's all that survived from the company defending the eastern side of the bridge.” She shook her head, sadly. “Not really the right time, or the right place, or – given he damn near got drowned and seems about to go off and risk his neck again – the right man to be thinking about a happily ever after with.”

“Still, he's a fool for not kissing and making up before you left,” Mablung said, slightly awkwardly. Emotional stuff did not come naturally to him.

Éowyn smiled at Mablung's attempt at being consoling, then forced a lighter tone to her voice. “So, I take it Anborn's money was on round about the four week mark.” Mablung gave a start of surprise, and Éowyn laughed.

“You knew it was the pot?”

“Of course I knew it was the pot, idiot. What was your money on?”

“Two weeks.”

This time, Éowyn's smile seemed more genuine. “Good to know someone has some belief in my womanly charms.” She brushed her hair back from her somewhat sweaty forehead, leaving a streak of grime across her face.

“Well, I thought the captain was a right stupid bastard for breaking off with you at all, to be honest. And given how he looks at you when he thinks you're not looking, I'm amazed he's still holding out.”

“What did Lieutenant Damn-his-arse bet on?”

“Two or three months.”

“Ah, bugger it. I'll have to come clean to Anborn then... Don't want that miserable sod to win.”

“Come clean... you mean...”

“You daft bugger. Did you really think we spent the night singing songs round the campfire?” She gave Mablung a wink. “I shagged him senseless.”

~o~O~o~

For all her bravado, Mablung reflected, he had a very subdued shieldmaiden on his hands for the next week. Even turning the countdown to shit duty into a running joke didn't entirely perk her up. _Still_ , he thought, _At least I'm making an effort._

But there was a surprise waiting for her when they came back from an afternoon's tracking together. Having made their way up the hidden paths and winding track from the forbidden pool, they came through the entrance into the largest of the caves to find Damrod deep in conversation with none other than the captain, Faramir with his back to them. It was clear that Damrod disagreed with something Faramir said, and the captain was trying to get his point across. Typical, thought Mablung. While he had a will of iron on the battle field, if there'd been a chink in the captain's armour, it was being too reticent around the soldiers whose judgement he valued. If he thought one of his subordinates had a point, he'd often be too damned reasonable for his own good, or indeed for the good of tight discipline. Which was all well and good, except that sometimes, Mablung reckoned, military discipline worked better when approached with a devil-may-care confidence.

As far as he could tell, this was one of those occasions. The captain held Damrod in high esteem. However, although Mablung was the first to admit that Damrod was a damn good 2IC, he also felt that sometimes the veteran took liberties. In Mablung's opinion, the Rangers, tight outfit that they already were, would be even tighter if Faramir could at some point kick Damrod's arse, and kick it hard, just to remind the man who was really in charge. Not that it was a huge deal – Faramir did have a knack of inspiring the sort of devotion that meant his men would follow him anywhere. It was just that maybe, perhaps, devotion plus a no-nonsense, kick the arse of the dissenters attitude – well perhaps that would work even better. _But enough of that,_ Mablung thought. _What's more interesting is what's going on right now between the two of them._ He turned his attention back to the 'frank and forthright exchange of views.'

As they argued, Damrod scanned the room behind the captain, and noticed Mablung and Éowyn. Sensing his lieutenant's shift in attention, Faramir turned, realising for the first time that Éowyn was there. For her part, she stood, frozen to the spot. With a curt nod to Damrod, Faramir strode across the cave to them. Damrod stood gaping at the summary dismissal.

Damrod wasn't the only person to be stunned by the captain's behaviour. With seemingly no care whatsoever for the presence of a considerable audience, Faramir caught Éowyn up in his arms and kissed her – not softly on the brow, but full on the lips – then stood with her held close to his chest, gently stroking her hair.

Only Mablung was close enough to hear the captain's words. “By all the Valar, I have missed you, my love.”

Damrod's words were slightly louder, however. While the captain's attention had been otherwise engaged, he'd crossed the room, and now announced in stentorian tones, with an edge of sarcasm teetering just on the safe side of outright insubordination, “Sir, when you have a moment...”

Faramir released Éowyn, and turned, raising one eyebrow. Damrod stood to attention, looking at the captain with a certain disdain. The captain's eyebrow went up a bit further, as if to express disbelief that Damrod could think himself placed to take him, the captain, to task over any part of his behaviour. Mablung realised he was holding his breath and released it in a sharp gasp. Bloody hell, this was the showdown he'd been hoping for, and it looked like shaping up to be a showdown and a half – and so far conducted without a word spoken. Instead it seemed to be a straightforward contest in facing each other down. And the more surprising thing: the captain seemed to be winning. 

Mablung thought once more about his theory that reason didn't matter in the end – that what really mattered was having the force of will to get your own way. For, according to the rule book, Damrod had a point and some, but it looked as though the captain simply didn't bloody care, and was going to carry the day with a display of sheer bloody minded arrogance Mablung hadn't thought him capable of.

_Bloody hell, she didn't so much shag him senseless as shag some sense into him!_

Faramir looked at Damrod and finally spoke. His words were quiet: the captain wasn't one to humiliate someone publicly. It was only by chance that Mablung was close enough to hear what he said. “I'll be with you in a minute, Damrod. If you could go and unroll the map on the table, I'll show you what I mean about troop depositions, and what we need to change. You've done a good holding job in my absence, but we need to strengthen some of the positions.” 

Damrod was left with no choice – he stomped back to the large table and rolled the map out as instructed. Again, only Mablung was close enough to hear what the captain said.

“I'd better go and deal with the grumpy bugger. In the mean time, how about going and getting your kit out of the dormitory and moving it into my quarters?” To Mablung's considerable amusement, his bold and blunt shield maiden blushed bright red at this, but also smiled like she was fit to burst with happiness, and gave a shy nod . ( _Shy? Her? What was the world coming to?_ )

The captain returned to the table, and the shieldmaiden slipped quietly through the arch into the dormitory. Mablung suppressed a grin as he waited, positioning himself so that he could see the faces of most of his comrades. When, about ten minutes later, Éowyn returned, bed roll under one arm, kit bag in the other, he was not disappointed. There was a look of stunned amazement on most of the faces, more than a few elbows in ribs, knowing grins and whispered ribald remarks. One or two braver (or foolhardier) souls even let loose a few wolf-whistles. Éowyn tilted her chin in the air defiantly, and strode across the room and through the doorway into the captain's quarters.


	8. Chapter 8

Faramir sat at the small writing desk in his quarters. He desperately wanted to see Éowyn, but he wasn't so much of a fool to interfere with Damrod's discipline. Well, not a complete fool, anyway. Interference would be madness: this balancing act between having her in his quarters at last and maintaining discipline would only work if there was no show of favouritism. So, after she'd moved her meagre possessions into his quarters, she'd promptly disappeared again, back to whatever duties it was Damrod had assigned her to. But gods, he wanted to see her, wanted to hold her, wanted... to explain what had happened in Minas Tirith. He gave his head a sudden shake, taken aback at the thought that much as he wanted to take her to bed as soon as he could, he wanted to talk to her even more.

She had looked stunned by his reappearance, and he didn't blame her. When he'd said goodbye, he'd been convinced his father would send him to search for this strange place, this... Imladris. But...

The latch on the door lifted, and Éowyn slipped into the room, closing the door behind her. She smiled, and it was as if the whole room was filled with sunshine. _Gods, my brother would have a field day if he knew how I thought about her... sunshine indeed._ He could almost hear his brother's affectionately mocking tone of voice. Nonetheless he couldn't help his answering smile. _She is sunshine, and starlight, and all good things..._

“Working hard?” Éowyn gestured towards the writing desk.

“Trying to.” Faramir gave a wry grin. “In truth, though, thinking of you instead of working...”

To his delight, Éowyn walked purposefully across the room, then sat astride his lap, pressing a lingering kiss to his lips.

“So, you haven't ridden off on a dangerous quest to goodness knows where...” Éowyn murmured her words against Faramir's neck, snuggling in close against him. In response, he wrapped his arms around her back and buried his face in her hair.

“No. Boromir and I went to my father, and told him of the dream. He said that his considered opinion was that it was some vision sent by the enemy to corrupt my mind...” Faramir's voice trailed off. His father had said, or at least implied, considerably more than that, hinting that Faramir was weak minded for succumbing to such a dream, and weak willed for suggesting destroying the bridge. He swallowed.

It seemed that Éowyn picked up on his mood, for she shifted on his lap, leaning back so she could look at his face. It seemed to him that she was searching, looking to see why he was troubled. With a sigh, she leant forward slightly, resting her forehead against his.

“You don't talk much about your father. But I hear the soldiers' gossip. He doesn't take you seriously, doesn't rate your abilities.” She paused, and looked at him again, blue eyes steady. “More fool him... Is that why he ignored the dream?”

“In part. But he was right too. There's no clear way of knowing whether the dream was a vision of the truth, or a ruse of the enemy's.”

“You don't have to think him right about everything. He's certainly not right in the estimation he places on you.” Once more, Éowyn's face was buried in his hair, her nose rubbing against his neck.

“I don't think him right about everything. He was certainly wrong when he thought that we could have defended the bridge without destroying it.”

“He thought that? He's an idiot.” Éowyn snorted in disgust.

“No, not an idiot. He is many things – strong willed, opinionated, difficult. But not an idiot. Not by any stretch of the imagination. His shrewdness and knowledge of lore and military strategy have helped to defend our realm for many tens of years.”

“I still don't like the way he favours Boromir and dismisses you.”

“Nor do I – but do hold to the fact that this is some blindness in my father, not my brother's fault.” Faramir was silent for a few moments. “It has been said to me that the problem is that I favour my mother too much – that every time he looks at me, he sees the woman he lost.”

“Then he's a fool – a clever fool perhaps, but a fool nonetheless. Surely he should value you all the more if you remind him of her.”

“Perhaps. The human heart does not work in predictable ways.” Idly, Faramir caught a strand of pale golden hair and wound it round his fingers, then leaned in and kissed Éowyn's jaw. Slowly, his mouth moved across her skin, eventually brushing against hers, softly, tantalisingly. With gentle insistence he sucked and teased at her lips, then with more urgency their mouths met, lips parted, tongues making darting sallies and then long, languid strokes. 

Eowyn's fingers moved to the laces on Faramir's shirt, undoing them. She kissed him again, setting a fire racing through his blood, as she ran her palms across his chest, fingertips tracing patterns on his skin. 

“Oh thank the gods you have come back to me,” she whispered. Then with a fluid grace, she pulled her own shirt over her head. Faramir's mouth went dry as he gazed at her, sliding his hands slowly down her sides to rest on her hips, pulling her close against him so she could feel the way he hardened beneath her. She leaned forward, hardened nipples brushing against his chest through the fabric of his shirt, and ground herself down against him, giving a low moan of need. Faramir broke off from the kiss long enough to dip his head to her breast. He ran his tongue slowly round the rosy, puckered skin, then took her nipple into his mouth, sucking and stroking it until he heard Eowyn give another moan, and start to rock against his cock.

“Too many bloody clothes.” She slid from his lap, and stood before him, pulling off first one boot then the other, and casually casting them to one side, before shimmying out of her breeches and standing, naked, before him. 

“Oh, my beautiful, bold shieldmaiden,” Faramir whispered, reaching a hand to grasp her arse and pulling her back towards him. He made as if to stand, but she laid a hand on his shoulder.

“No, stay there.” With nimble fingers, she unlaced his breeches and slid them down, then allowed her hand to run back up the inside of his thigh, running her fingers over his balls and along the length of his cock. Faramir's hips moved helplessly, trying to push himself against her hand. But teasingly, she took her hands and placed them on his shoulders, sliding her fingers under the cloth of his shirt. Then she stepped forward, thighs straddling his legs, and kissed him again, tongue thrusting into his mouth.

“Oh, Tulkas...” Faramir gave a hoarse groan. He felt his cock twitch, saw Éowyn glance down and give a triumphant smile. “Don't you want to undress me?”

Again, Eowyn smiled, her face suffused with a mixture of lust and mischief. “No, for I find the idea of being naked while you are dressed – partly, but improperly dressed... I find...” She moved down, her entrance slick and moist against the tip of his cock. “It makes me wet for you. Makes me feel like I'm on fire. Makes me need to feel you fill me...” She laid her cheek against his, and her voice dropped to a husky whisper. “Makes me want to fuck you.” Slipping her hand between them, she wrapped her hand round his shaft and held him steady while slowly, oh so slowly, she slid down his length, at last taking her hand away to allow all of him inside her.

“Gods, you're so thick, so wonderfully thick.” She started to rock against him, kissing him deeply. Then whispered, “Do you want to watch me frig myself while we fuck?”

“Nienna, I'm going to spend myself on the spot if you say things like that.” Faramir's voice was a strangled groan.

“Mmm, so long as you take me with you.”

Faramir looked on, enraptured, his hands splayed across Éowyn's hips, thrusting into her, trying to stay in control. Her eyes never left his face – she seemed to him to drink in every reaction she caused in him, and he in turn felt his desperate need grow as he watched her. Her face grew flushed, her eyelids fluttered closed, long lashes brushing her cheeks. He felt her hot, smooth skin, felt the liquid warmth of her around him. Her breathing came ever more rapidly. Then with a series of soft cries, gasping as if there was not enough air in the room, she came, lips parted, eyes screwed tightly shut, body shuddering and pitching forward against him. It was enough to bring the blinding white heat of his own release cascading over him.

Afterwards (having finally shed his own clothes) they lay together under the blankets in his narrow bed. Sated, Éowyn drifted off to sleep almost immediately. Faramir lay awake slightly longer, luxuriating in the warmth of her body, and in the comfort of her slow breathing. He found himself carried away by an immense wave of tenderness at the feel of her slender frame tucked against his. As he drifted off to sleep, almost his last thought was to wonder how soundproof his door was; Éowyn was, he realised, not exactly quiet. Then he decided he didn't really care, and with that, sleep took him.

~o~O~o~

Éowyn paused for a moment, resting the heavy bucket of crap and piss on a tree stump. Mablung stopped too, and lowered his bucket to the ground.

“Job getting to you already?” he asked with a chuckle. Today was the day Éowyn's double duties came to an end, to be replaced instead with what Mablung called “shit-shovelling duty.” He was showing her the track through the forest, cunningly picked out to follow exposed bedrock as much as possible so as to avoid leaving a trail. It led, some quarter of a league or so away, to a waterfall which eventually fed a stream over the watershed from where they collected their drinking water – a safe place to wash away the waste, with the bonus that it stood an outside chance of poisoning water supplies for the Southrons and Easterlings if they happened to drink from the water.

“No, it's the job I dreamed of all those years ago as a little girl when I got my first practice sword.” Éowyn added an obscene gesture to her answer, just in case her sarcastic tone wasn't clear.

“Save that one for the captain, love. I doubt he'd want you going round giving that sort of invitation to mere sergeants.”

“The invitation was for you to do it to yourself.”

“Oh, I do,” said Mablung. “Every night. My favourite part of the day.”

Éowyn gave a grunt and flicked a pine cone at Mablung.

“Come on then,” said Mablung. “These buckets won't empty themselves.” He picked his own one up and started to lead the way through the trees.

They eventually made it back to the caves in time for the evening meal. Freed at last from her double duties, for the first time in weeks Éowyn had a chance to sit down after the meal and take her time over a tankard of ale. The only shame was that Faramir wasn't there to keep her company; he'd gone to the crossing at Cair Andros to discuss the latest troop movements with his brother's captain who commanded the fort there. Still, not having to scrub pots or hammer dents out of armour was a pretty good deal as far as she was concerned. Mablung settled down on the bench beside her, and sat with his elbows resting on the table before him.

“So, you never did tell me how you got the money to repay the pot.” Mablung grinned, then his face clouded slightly, and he continued with considerable embarrassment. “You didn't get it off the captain, did you?”

“Gods, of course not!” Éowyn looked quite shocked. “I borrowed it from his brother.”

“His brother!” Mablung sounded stunned. “What did you tell him you needed it for?”

Éowyn grinned. “I told him the truth.”

“What? About the pot? And about what the bet was about?”

“Yeah, he thought it was hilarious. I like Boromir.” Éowyn paused, then added reflectively, “I think him and me... we're quite alike in a lot of ways. Action first, words a long way last. Makes it easy to talk to him.”

“So, does that mean you're wondering if you've got the right brother?” Mablung gave a wicked grin.

“Bloody hell no! We're too alike – we'd end up killing each other. Besides, I need...” Éowyn blushed slightly. “I need F... the captain's gentleness.” She looked down at her hands, prodding at a hangnail absently in embarrassment. “I need him to be gentle and kind and stupidly noble and all the things he is, and I think he needs me to be forthright and blunt and stupidly bold and all the things I am...”

“You can call him by his name, you know,” said Mablung. Again, that wicked grin. “I mean, surely you don't call him 'captain' in bed.” He took a pull of his beer.

This time it was Éowyn's turn to give a wicked grin. “What makes you so sure? Maybe he likes that sort of thing.” She let her voice dropped to a husky, sultry whisper. “Oh captain, my captain.”

Her timing was perfect. Mablung's beer sprayed all over the table. Then both of them collapsed into the sort of snorting, snotty, hysterical laughter that left them unable to speak for several minutes.

~o~O~o~

The next few weeks were busy. The enemy seemed to have drawn back his main force after the destruction of the bridge, but there were still constant sorties by orcs and troops of men allied to the dark one. Many of them seemed aimed at the outpost at Cair Andros, probing its strength. If that were to fall, Gondor would have no easy crossing to Ithilien, and its position would be severely weakened. Yet, as Boromir had said on Faramir's last visit, really it was only a question of when, not if.

Faramir had taken to asking Éowyn to go with him on these visits. To her delight, it seemed to be as much because he and his brother valued her thoughts on defensive strategy. Though undoubtedly he valued her company in his bed, too. But Éowyn thought she had noticed a shift even in that. Not that there was any lessening of their physical pleasure in one another, and if anything, their fondness for one another (she insisted on calling it that in her mind) seemed to grow with time. But Faramir seemed to need her. His nights were increasingly plagued with dreams, and he would wake from fitful sleep in the middle of the night. As far as she could tell, only her presence was able to fill him with the peace he needed to go back to sleep.

This night they'd got back to the fastness of the caves late. A full moon had allowed them to go scouting late into the night, but then they'd been caught in a rainstorm. Shivering, they'd eaten the half-cold remains of the stew sitting in the embers of the fire, then dived beneath the covers of Faramir's bed, too tired to do anything but sleep.

Éowyn was awakened by a low groan. Then muttered words. “Imladris... sword... Isildur...” Then with a start, Faramir sat up. Éowyn rested her hand in the small of his back, and he seemed to realise where he was, settling back down and resting his head on her chest.

“That's the second time this week you've had the dream.” In Eowyn's mind, _The Dream_ now came with definite article and capital letters. “And you had it last week too.”

Faramir's voice was muffled by her breasts, but she heard him murmur, “I didn't tell you this, but last time we saw him... Boromir's had the same dream. We think we're going to have to go to see our father again, get him to reconsider.”

Cold fear clutched at Éowyn's heart. She tried to keep her voice level. “I suppose if you persuade him you'll have to ride to Imladris.”

“Yes, I think I will. At least last time we consulted father we found out more about it. It is a valley far to the north, on the western side of the Misty Mountains. The home of Elrond Half-Elven, who was once Gil Galad's herald.”

As with the last time they had talked of this, Éowyn felt her world shift on its axis at the thought of figures from myth and legend, lost in the mists of time before the founding of the Mark, somehow come to life and walking the earth in these latter days. But her wonder was tempered by the fear of losing Faramir. She wrapped her arms round his shoulders, drawing him close.

“Come with me to Minas Tirith,” Faramir said, suddenly. “I would have you meet my father. I don't want to skulk in corners. I want to hold my head up high and tell him you are the woman I love.”

Éowyn dropped a gentle kiss on his brow. As she did so, she couldn't help but think that it was unlikely Denethor would welcome her as warmly as Boromir had. And more to the point, there was the cold fear that this meeting was merely the precursor to losing Faramir, possibly for good. And however often she told herself this was just a fling, she wasn't at all sure she could cope without him.


	9. Chapter 9

On either side of the door stood a sentry, in the black tabards of the citadel, emblazoned with the silver tree. They stood smartly to attention as Faramir and Boromir approached. Éowyn tried not to be overawed by the place; she was the niece of a king, she reminded herself. But glorious as the Golden Hall was, as regal and kingly as Théoden had been in the years before the darkness fell upon him, nothing could have compared her for this.

The hall down which they had passed was huge, overwhelming. Stone columns soared to a high vault. Perfect masonry, fitting together almost seamlessly, betokened the skill of the master masons of ages since passed. The flags beneath her feet were worn to a high polish. This building was already ancient when first Eorl the young had ridden across the green fields of the Mark. The great wooden doors were three, perhaps four times the height of even a tall man. Dark they were, yet inlaid with marquetry of a fine, lighter wood, and set about with fine insets of metal – a gleaming yet somehow dusky silver, which (though she had never seen it before) she guessed to be mithril.

Those great doors swung noiselessly outwards, and beyond, she saw another high vaulted chamber, with low steps and a dais at its far end. In the centre of the dais was a throne, magnificent, rich, the corporeal form of power, and yet empty. To one side of it was a smaller, more modest chair, and in it sat a man.

She recognised him instantly, for both (yes, both, to her surprise) his sons favoured him in looks. He must have been older than Théoden, but where Théoden was stooped by a combination of the years and the Worm's vile influence, this man sat straight as a battle spear, and every bit as sharp and dangerous. His hair was raven, but streaked with silver, and for a moment Éowyn found her mind drawn back to the mithril inlay on the door.

Squaring her shoulders, she followed the brothers down the centre of the chamber at a brisk march, coming to a halt before the Steward. His eyes looked her up and down, a cool, dispassionate examination. Then, as if she were of little import, he turned his attention to his sons.

“To what happenstance do I owe the arrival of both my sons? Are affairs in Gondor and Ithilien now of such little importance that you both feel able to delegate your authority to your junior officers to come gadding across the Pelennor to spend your precious time in Minas Tirith?”

Both his sons pressed their hands to their breasts, and bowed their heads. Boromir spoke.

“Father – when last we both came to see you...”

Abruptly, Denethor cut him off. “After the loss of Osgiliath. I remember it well. Would that I did not. I hope you do not come with tidings of similar misadventure.”

“My Lord, no.” Boromir took a deep breath and squared his shoulders before pressing on. “No further military losses. But Faramir told you of his dream.”

Denethor gave a contemptuous snort. “Ah yes, my fey son, gifted with the sight of the Eldar. Or perhaps simply weak enough of will to have his mind turned to treacherous visions. For thus it seemed to me when first you came to me with this extraordinary tale.”

Éowyn stiffened at this. How could Faramir stand there impassively, his grey eyes fixed calmly on his father's face while the man traduced him so? But before she could be tempted to react, to blurt out her half-formed thoughts in defence of her captain, Boromir spoke.

“Then you have two sons who are fey and weak-willed, Father, for I too have had this dream, several times, as has Faramir. It simply cannot be dismissed as a mere accident, a fevered offering of minds over-wrought by combat. There is a possibility that it is a portent, that it offers a vision of some unlooked for allies in far-flung realms. We cannot overlook this possibility: we must investigate.”

Faramir stepped forward half a pace. “Boromir and I have discussed this. He is your captain-general, your right hand, of far more value militarily.” He left the rest of the thought unuttered, but all those in the room knew the unspoken addition. Taking a breath, he continued, “The last time we talked, you said that Imladris lay far to the north, beyond the gap of Rohan, north even of Eriador, and was ruled by Elrond Half-Elven. With your permission, my lord, I would ride there and seek his counsel. Sooner rather than later – I would propose riding within the week.”

It took all of Éowyn's will-power to stay upright. The room seemed to tilt, its columns and high windows swam before her eyes. She had thought she would be hard hit if Faramir were to leave, but nothing had prepared her for the reality of his imminent departure. She concentrated on breathing, slow and steady, in for a count of three, hold, out for a count of three. Then she tried to focus on the conversation.

“Ah, my sons, my sons. You think you are so wise. Think you not that I have my own sources of information, that I am incapable of coming to this conclusion myself.”

“What sources?” asked Faramir.

“None that you need to know of. But your father is learned in lore – as learned perhaps as that wizard on whose coat-tails you loved to hang when you were younger. I have studied the tomes in our archives, cast divinations, looked afar...”

To Éowyn's surprise she saw Faramir cast a sharp, almost suspicious glance at his father on hearing these words. His father's face, however, bore an uncharacteristically preoccupied look, and he seemed not to notice Faramir's scrutiny. Instead, he continued, his voice suddenly decisive once more, commanding.

“This is no fool's errand, but a quest of the utmost importance. Therefore I shall assign the forces at my disposal accordingly. Boromir shall go.”

Éowyn let out a breath she feared must have been audible. She felt almost as if her heart was about to jump out of her ribcage from sheer relief. But at the same time, she couldn't help but notice the tremendous look of hurt on Faramir's face, and the look of stunned surprise on Boromir's.

“But father...” began Faramir.

“Silence! You question my judgement?”

“Of course not,” said Faramir, his tone suggesting that he struggled to avoid giving the lie to his words.

“Who will be captain-general in my place?” asked Boromir, giving an expectant look towards Faramir.

“I shall appoint a general staff, with military decisions to be taken by myself and selected counsellors – Castamir and Turgon are the first men to spring to mind – and my decisions will be passed down the chain of command. Faramir, you are to remain in Ithilien. Intelligence gathering seems a task to which you are suited.” Then Denethor turned his gaze towards Éowyn, almost as if taking note of her for the first time. He added pointedly, “Among other things. Building close links with our allies also appears to be something of a strength of yours. Or so I am informed.”

Éowyn found her fists clenching beneath the folds of her cloak. At the same time, she saw Faramir's back stiffen, and for a moment she fancied she could actually make out the hairs on the back of his neck rising. Before he could speak, however, his father continued, this time addressing her directly. 

“So, madam, I understand you are the King of Rohan's niece.”

“Yes, my lord,” said Éowyn, inclining her head slightly.

“So, my lady, what would you say of Rohan's condition? Rumours come to me that treaties have been signed with our enemies, that you pay tribute to the land of the shadow in the form of horses, black horses.” Denethor fixed his gaze on her. His dark eyes, shadowed by heavy brows, were set either side of a hawk like nose, and she was reminded of a raptor, soaring high on invisible currents of air, its attention focused on its prey, waiting for the right moment to stoop.

“A vile falsehood, my lord. We pay no such tribute, nor are we in league with the enemy, who is as surely our enemy as he is yours. It is true that the forces of evil cross the Anduin in raiding parties and steal our horses, showing a preference for black mounts, but we make them pay for their theft in blood. Alas, though, the blood of my people is shed just as freely in defence of our land.” Éowyn drew herself up proud and tall as she delivered this speech.

“Hmm. And what of your king, Théoden? Does he ever mention the oath of Eorl? Would he honour his oath if Gondor called upon old loyalties, and asked for the blood of your people to be shed in defence of Gondor?”

“Théoden King is a man of the utmost honour, and no oath-breaker.” Éowyn's words started proudly and defiantly, but then she found her voice trailing off. A memory came to her of her uncle, hunched in his throne, barely aware of his surroundings, with the Worm whispering words of poison in his ear.

Denethor picked up on her hesitation instantly. “A man of honour, yes. Honour is to be valued, is it not? And virtue...” He gave her a pointed look, and despite her show of defiance, she felt a slight flush creep into her cheeks. A flicker of satisfaction flared in Denethor's eyes, as if he were a fencer who had scored a point, creeping under his opponent's guard. Éowyn realised this was war on two fronts: both the honour of her country and her own honour were under equally stern scrutiny. But there was no doubt that the frontal attack was focussed on assessing Rohan's readiness for war; her own role was a mere minor skirmish, to be pursued if there was an opportune opening for a quick and dirty tactical advantage to be gained. Satisfied with his point, Denethor returned to his main strategic aim.

“So, my lady,” he continued – and this time he made no effort to hide the sarcastic edge in his voice as he delivered this salutation - “We have established that King Théoden is a man of honour. But what of his fitness to lead a military campaign. He is advanced in years: think you that his sword arm is still strong, that his command of his armies is still held within an iron grasp?”

“His son Théodred is a warrior of renown, strong, quick and a great leader of men.” Éowyn realised her words were a mistake immediately; Denethor must see them for the evasion they were.

A knowing glint lit the Steward's face. He had read all he needed to know from what she did not say. She saw his fingers clench the arms of the carved chair, and then out of nowhere he launched a surprise attack on her flank. 

“You are not the only Rohirrim to serve in my army, though you are...” He cast a sidelong glance at his younger son, who stood regarding him with barely disguised fury, before continuing, “Undoubtedly the fairest. Your brother seems to have sent quite a few of his men here, men of considerable skill as warriors. And yet you tell me that your country faces continual attacks on its north east borders from the forces of Mordor. Would your brother not be better to keep the services of the best of his troops? As well as perhaps keeping a closer guard on his sister's... safety.” 

Fighting the flash of anger she felt at this last barb, Éowyn scrambled to gather her wits together and come up with a suitable response. “It is not just the King who feels the weight of the oath of Eorl – all of his immediate kin feel our ancient obligation most keenly, and if my brother can assist by sending troops, and I by serving myself, then we feel duty bound to do so.”

The words sounded leaden to Éowyn's ear even as she uttered them. Denethor merely raised his eyebrows slightly. Infuriatingly, Éowyn found herself reminded once more, and uncomfortably so, of the family resemblance. That raise of the eyebrows: she had seen Faramir use it to express his scepticism at some of the tall tales his soldiers told him. The fact that Faramir did so tempered with a sense of fair play, while she was rapidly coming to the conclusion that his father was, if anything, even more of a bastard than rumour had given her to understand, only added to the feeling of being caught off balance by this encounter.

“So it is not the case that he sends us the troops who have proved to be too... independent minded to serve comfortably in the cavalry of their homeland? Those whose loyalties to your brother are unimpeachable, but whose loyalties to the crown are perhaps... less firmly founded?”

Eowyn clenched her fists once more, glad of the folds of material which hid them. “Both their loyalties and my brother's towards Théoden King are beyond reproach. That their loyalty to the crown does not meet with equal favour in all quarters is not a fault to be laid at their door.” _Damnation! Let the wild hunt take me... I should not have admitted to that._

As quick as lightning, Denethor stooped to pounce on his prey. “So, there are divisions within Théoden's kingdom, are there? And how secure is his grip on power? Does he rule his kingdom in truth, or is he become old and enfeebled, unable to grip the reins of power?”

Eowyn took a deep breath to calm herself, lest she be tempted to draw her sword. “My lord, have you brought me here simply to insult my liege and king, my nation and my family?” She stood straight and proud, looking him in the eye. “If you have quite finished your examination of me, I ask leave to depart.”

Denethor gave a tight smile, one which carried no hint of humour. “You mistake my intentions entirely, madam. I merely wished to gain some picture of the state of affairs in Rohan, a picture which I have now constructed with your... help. You may consider yourself dismissed from my company. Faramir, perhaps you could accompany your... companion. I have no further need of your presence today, though I require you here tomorrow morning as soon as you have broken your fast. Alone. And in the mean time, if you could remember your station and behave with the decorum befitting our family and its lineage, I would be grateful. I would like, if possible to avoid any breath of public scandal attaching to our name.”

The Steward turned from them to his elder son. “Boromir, you will stay. There are matters pertaining to your journey of which I must inform you.”

Éowyn refused to acknowledge Denethor with even the slightest inclination of her head. She turned heel and walked back down the long hall, Faramir at her side. He remained silent as they retraced their steps through the palace and out of the great doors to the courtyard outside.

Once out of sight of the guards, Faramir stopped beside a low stone wall overlooking the small walled garden. He slammed his fist down on the balustrade.

“Morgoth's balls, patricide is a crime both according to the laws of men, and an act of blasphemy before the face of the Valar. But I am tempted, by Tulkas, I am tempted.”

Éowyn laid her hand on his arm. Suddenly she seemed to see, as if through the eyes of a disinterested observer, the farce for what it was. “Peace, my love. I now realise that your father's performance was as much as anything intended to rile me into giving up information I should have kept to myself. And, damn my foolish temper, I fell into the trap headlong.”

“No doubt that was part of his plan. But his behaviour towards you was inexcusable.”

Éowyn gave a wan smile. “Do you still think your plan to tell him of your feelings for me is a good one?”

“Good or not, I shall still tell him on the morrow. And make him choke on his words. Éowyn, I would fain tell him that I intend to marry you. Will you have me to be your husband?”

Éowyn stared at Faramir, stunned into silence. Then, to his chagrin, started to chuckle. “As proposals of marriage go, that has to be one of the least romantic in history.”


	10. Chapter 10

It was several hours after his meeting with his father before Faramir felt he had calmed down sufficiently to seek Éowyn out. The only slight glimmer of light on the horizon was the arrival of a missive, on expensive velum, penned in his Aunt's elegant hand. The Princess Merileth had written with her customary grasp of diplomatic niceties. She understood that the niece of the King of Rohan was visiting Minas Tirith in his company, and of course needed to be offered hospitality in keeping with her station. Yet at the same time it would clearly be quite unacceptable for her to stay in the Steward's palace, in the company of a widower and two bachelors, with no female chaperone. As chance would have it, however, she and Prince Imrahil were visiting the city and would be delighted to have the Lady Éowyn stay with them. 

Tucking the letter into his tunic, Faramir heaved a sigh and went in search of Éowyn. He felt that she would probably accept his aunt's offer of hospitality with good grace. That would be the easy part of the conversation. But how was he to tell her of his father's reaction? And what sort of a sorry apology for a man would she think him to be when he told her the whole story? Well, perhaps not quite the whole story. He had no intention of telling her of his father's vile assessment of her character. The bare bones, the mere facts would suffice – he would spare her the worst.

~o~O~o~

To Faramir's amazement, Éowyn smiled. Admittedly, it was not a particularly humorous smile – her face bore a look made up of resignation and cynicism in equal parts.

“I cannot say I am surprised. You may have thought he would agree; I on the other hand did not for one moment think that was a likely outcome.” 

“But surely you must be disappointed in me. I am disappointed in me. I feel as though a real man would have stood up to him, would have said 'Morgoth take you,' and married you without his permission.” He glanced down, avoiding her gaze. She gave a quiet snort of … what? Resignation? Irritation? Then she reached out and stroked his cheek gently. Her voice when she spoke revealed that he had misread her mood completely; it was gentle and understanding.

“Faramir, I'm not a fool. You don't care for his opinion, you don't care whether he disinherits you or not. But you do care for your country and your troops, and I know that your father threatened you not only with disinheritance, but also with stripping you of your commission and exiling you. We are at war, both our countries, in all but name. You can't sacrifice the safety of your nation for love. If you did you wouldn't be worth the having.” This time her smile did seem almost genuine, if tinged with sadness, as she declaimed, “ _Thou couldst not love me, dear, so much, lovedst thou not honour more..._ ”

“Ecthelion I's ode on being parted from his new bride. Though I don't recall the original going _quite_ like that.” Faramir managed a faint grin in return.

“Hmph,” said Éowyn. “Your job is to quote poetry. I, being a practical and barbarous Rohir, merely plagiarise then adapt it to suit my purposes.”

It wasn't until several hours later that it occurred to Faramir to wonder fleetingly quite how his lady had happened to hit upon exactly the same turn of phrase his father had used in their ill-starred meeting that morning. But he was prevented from pursuing this thought by Éowyn's intervention: for the first time in several days they had found a quiet place to themselves, and she was certainly not one to waste a golden opportunity. It was not long before Faramir lost all capacity for rational thought.

~o~O~o~

The few days in Minas Tirith passed pleasantly, but with the cloud of Boromir's imminent departure hanging over them. Faramir was fretful and clearly worried. Éowyn suspected he might have had another of his premonitions, but since she was safely chaperoned in the company of the Prince and Princess of Dol Amroth, she certainly had no opportunity to find out at first hand whether his dreams were disturbed, nor did she find the chance to ask him outright. Boromir was also fretful, but more in the manner of a horse on the starting line of a race, tossing its head and tugging at the reins, anxious to be off. Inaction did not suit him, nor long goodbyes.

The afternoon before Boromir was due to ride on the morrow, he sought Éowyn out. She smiled at him.

“I wish you the speed of Béma's wild hunt to carry you to your destination safely,” she said. She hoped that he only picked up on her genuine concern for him, and not for the equally strong current of relief that seemed to flow beneath the surface of her thoughts whenever she considered his quest, and the fact that it might, perhaps should, have been Faramir riding in his place. However, Boromir was possessed of rather more sensitivity to the moods of others than she had credited him with.

“We've never beat around the bush, you and I?” he responded. “You're quite glad Faramir's not going.”

Éowyn could not help but give a wry laugh at being so easily discovered. “Not at all! I am very glad Faramir is not going,” she corrected him.

Boromir laughed too, and tried to make light of her evident embarrassment. “Worried he wouldn't be up to the trip?”

“Ah, you're teasing. I know that you at least do not underestimate your brother... unlike some of your kin.” Her brows drew together in a frown for a moment, then her face cleared. “No, it's just that I would miss him. Miss him more than I had realised, more than I thought I was capable of.” She glanced away, down at her hands, to cover her embarrassment.

“Éowyn...” His voice held a sudden note of seriousness she had not heard before. Startled, she looked up to find him staring straight at her. “I have a feeling – an odd sort of sense – that all may not be well with this venture. Don't scoff. I know Faramir is the one with the sight, but still, I get feelings sometimes. If something should happen to me...” He shook his head as if trying to clear away the dark clouds of uncertainty, then forced a smile which did not quite reach his eyes. “Ah, I'm being absurdly melancholic. Anyone would think I'd been reading my brother's books of poetry. But if I don't come back, the two of you can name your first born for me.”

“First born?” Éowyn raised her eyebrows. “What makes you so sure there will be one?”

“The way the two of you carry on? It's only a matter of time. In fact, I'm amazed it hasn't happened yet. Almost worth it to see the look on the old man's face!”

“Almost, but not quite,” said Éowyn, dryly. “Anyway, should we get that far, you can come to the child's naming yourself.”

“I shall do so with joy.”

“So, you do not dine with your father tonight? I would have thought that he would wish to spend time with you before you leave,” Éowyn said.

“One might have hoped... But no, having briefed me in the early evening, apparently he has matters of state to attend to. What he gets up to in that high tower of his is anyone's guess, but he over stretches himself. He always looks drained, tired, after a night's work on his papers there.” Boromir's expression was worried. For all his comments about the old man, Éowyn reflected, he loved his father. As, incomprehensibly, did Faramir. Or had until this week. After the last few days, Éowyn was not quite sure how the younger of Denethor's two sons now felt.

Boromir continued, “So, I shall break my fast with him tomorrow before I ride north. But tonight I get to dine with you and Faramir at our uncle's town house.”

~o~O~o~

Towards the rear of Imrahil's city residence there was a walled garden. Faramir had led Eowyn into it to “take the air,” though she suspected it was more because he was beginning to feel the strain of keeping up a carefree exterior when he was worried about the dangers his brother faced on his journey. The evening would have been more relaxing had it just been Imrahil, Merileth and their cousins. But diplomatic necessity had meant the inclusion of a number of court worthies, and although they seemed to have been hand-picked from among the prince's friends and allies, nonetheless their presence stopped the event from being the family affair Eowyn had hoped for. So she couldn't blame Faramir for taking the opportunity to escape from the glittering social chit-chat for a few moments. However, his actions did take her by surprise. Rather than sitting in plain site by the fountain in the centre of the courtyard, he tugged her hand and drew her into a shaded grotto in the stone wall behind a clump of fragrant shrubs.

“Do you know, I don't think I've ever seen you in skirts before,” he whispered, eyes sparkling with amusement.

“I feel ridiculous,” Éowyn replied. And in truth, she did, for it had been nearly three years since she'd worn dresses at her uncle's court.

“You look beautiful.” Faramir raised his hand and stroked her cheek, running his fingers along the braids of hair which framed her face.

“My feet hurt. These damned slippers pinch.”

Faramir grinned. “Ah, so ladylike and gracious in accepting compliments.” Éowyn gave a quiet snort of laughter. “But I cannot leave my lady love lamenting her sore feet.” He placed his hands on her waist and lifted her, effortlessly, onto the stone ledge at the back of the recess. Then he reached under the hem of her gown and slipped the jewelled, embroidered slippers from her feet, dropping them casually to the ground before starting to massage her feet.

“Oh, that's nice. Mmm”

Faramir's thumbs rubbed circles into the arches of her feet, soothing the skin where the shoes had chafed. Then, with a sidelong glance up at her from beneath dark lashes, his fingers moved gently up to her ankles and calves, stroking her skin.

“I don't recall the slippers causing any problem up there,” Éowyn said, raising her eyebrows.

“Are you sure? One can't be too careful about the after effects of overly tight jewelled slippers. I have lost men to lesser wounds...” Faramir dipped his head and placed a kiss on her left ankle. “I think I should check you over carefully... I've been thinking I should do so since the moment I set eyes on you in this dress.” His lips moved up her calf towards her knee, shoving the folds of rich fabric upwards. He lifted her leg slightly, and kissed the side of her knee, fingers gently stroking the hollow behind. “Oh Valar, the skin here is so soft...” His head disappeared under her skirt.

“Faramir! What if someone comes into the garden? We'll get... Ah!” The final sentence turned into a moan as Éowyn felt the tip of Faramir's tongue leave a silky wet trail up the inside of her thigh. Then his hands, firm and strong, parted her legs and lifted them till they came to rest on his shoulders. She felt the heat of his mouth as his tongue quested further up her thigh, then felt long, nimble fingers teasing at the edge of her small clothes.

“Faramir... Stop... Someone will see...” Her voice was shaky. Somehow, despite her words, her hands clutched the heavy material of her dress, holding his head just where it was.

She felt his fingers ease the fabric of her small clothes to one side, felt the hem of the silk teasing her skin and the curls of hair as he moved it out of the way. It was as if the hidden, secret place between her legs seemed to swell along with her racing pulse. She felt his hot breath on her, as he spoke, his voice low and laden with need. “I can stop if you want me to... Do you want me to? Really?” Each word caressed her skin and sent flames of desire licking across her body. 

Almost involuntarily, her thighs tightened round him. “Faramir...” Only this time, his name was an unmistakable plea for more. In a deft motion, his tongue flickered across the surface of her sensitive skin, hot and wet, just a single quick stroke and no more.

“Was that a 'yes'?” Another teasing stroke, slightly slower and more purposeful, sliding just a tiny part of the way between her folds. Then he moved his head back, and blew lightly on the moistened skin.

“Oh gods, yes...” Then his head was back against her, his lips on her soft skin. And somehow, he managed to alternate strokes of his tongue with murmured words against her, and the hum of his lips in contact with her skin as he spoke did almost as much as his tongue, and the words, oh gods, the words...

“Since the moment I saw this dress... wanted to get my head under your skirts... wanted to breathe... your wonderful musky smell... taste you... Valar, I love the way you taste... your thighs wrapped round me... your thighs are like silk... and the noises you make... gods, the feel of your heat round my fingers... I could stay here all night...”

Then his words trailed away as he applied himself with single minded focus to his task, sucking at her, tongue lapping across the nub of flesh hidden there, swirling round. She felt him slide his long, clever fingers inside her, curling and twisting them to stroke inside her. 

Éowyn's hands clung to the lip of the stone ledge, gaining purchase as she writhed and ground her hips against his head. Her back and neck were arched backwards, body drawn tight like a bow. And all the while there was a glorious liquid heat from his mouth, his lips, his tongue, flowing between her folds, teasing the delicate centre between them, licking, sucking in time with the movement of his fingers. Éowyn felt her tense need surging, building, until with a gasping shudder, her thighs clenched around him as the wave of desire finally crashed over her. 

As she sat, shaking with the aftermath, Faramir managed to disentangle himself from her skirts and pulled her body close to him, kissing her with lips which still held the salty, brackish tang of her desire.

“Valar, to be able to do that to you... Feel what your pleasure does to me.” He took her hand and pressed it to the front of his breeches, where she could feel his cock, swelling against the fabric. Her fingers moved to the laces and started to tug at them. But before she could get to the hard length within, a man's voice cut through the darkness.

“Faramir... Our uncle is about to propose a toast.”

Faramir jumped away from Éowyn with the sort of speed he normally reserved for sword fights. Boromir came into view, his face imperturbably impassive. However, as Faramir stepped to one side to allow Éowyn to precede him, Boromir whispered from her other side, “Only a matter of time, only a matter of time...”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eowyn's line of poetry is stolen (and deliberately misquoted) from Richard Lovelace's "To Lucasta, on going to the wars."


	11. Chapter 11

Éowyn rode the remount across the plains, feeling strangely lost. The last day and a half had been fraught. First, Faramir had said farewell to Boromir. Éowyn had made herself scarce: she thought it likely that the two brothers would wish to be alone. Their father had appeared before Boromir's final departure, and Éowyn had watched from a distance, up on the walls. Faramir had been very subdued afterwards. When, later that afternoon, he had finally sought her out, he had managed to say little more than “I have this feeling that he will not be coming back,” before burying his face in her shoulder and clinging to her silently for some time. In the evening, Prince Imrahil and his wife had provided them with a quiet family supper, just the four of them, and Princess Merileth had suggested, towards the end of the meal, that she could have an additional guest room made ready for Faramir. There seemed to be an unspoken understanding that he would not want to be at his father's house that night.

Éowyn was not surprised when, half an hour or so after she had retired to bed, Faramir crept into her room. She rather suspected that Imrahil and Merileth were under no illusions as to the likelihood of Faramir remaining in the room prepared for his use, but chose to turn a blind eye to any nocturnal wanderings. In any case, Éowyn thought that, at least technically, the proprieties were observed. Faramir was not in the mood to make love; he simply wanted to be close to her while he slept (or rather, while he didn't).

~o~O~o~

With a sigh of relief, Mablung swung his pack from his shoulders and dropped it on the ground, before sitting down with his back against the bole of a gnarled old pine tree. Éowyn settled against a nearby boulder. She reached up above her head, stretching the kinks out of her back, and gave a big yawn.

“Didn't sleep well last night? I suppose you're used to the captain's nice feather bed...” Mablung teased.

“Feather bed? Lumpy palliasse more like. No, it was Damrod's bloody snoring, kept me awake all night.”

“Huh, _you're_ kept awake by _his_ snoring? Least of our problems back at Henneth Annûn. The sound of you two shagging, on the other hand...” Mablung winked at her.

Éowyn turned scarlet.

“I mean, is the guy hung like a horse or something? And the length of time you go on for – he must have the stamina of one of the bloody meeries or whatever you call them...”

“Mearas,” Éowyn corrected. Then she obviously decided that fronting things out was the best policy because she met Mablung's gaze and said, “And yes, yes he is and he does, if you're really that interested in knowing.”

Now it was Mablung's turn to blush. “Actually, you know, I don't think I was.”

“Well, you shouldn't have bloody asked then, should you?”

There was a slightly awkward silence for a few moments, which the two of them tried to fill by eating pieces of waybread and gulping from their waterskins. Eventually, Éowyn said rather cautiously, “Am I really that noisy?”

Mablung looked a bit embarrassed. “Not really... Not so's you'd wake someone up if they were asleep. But, yeah, you can tell what the two of you are up to.”

“Oh gods! I'm never going to be able to look anyone in the face again.”

“I wouldn't worry – living all jammed together, it's not like we haven't heard other blokes knocking one off on the sly when they've got a spare moment, or even the odd time a couple of them slip off to try out the way of the warrior. I think if there's any thoughts on it at all, it's mostly 'how come they're getting some and we're not.' Henneth Annûn's a long way to be billeted away from your wife or sweetheart.”

“Talking of which, you've always played your cards close to your chest on that one. Have you got a sweetheart?” To Éowyn's delight, Mablung blushed. “You have, haven't you?”

“Back home, in Forlond. But I'm much better behaved than y... the captain is...”

“Oh yeah? Is that a polite way of saying your sweetheart isn't as much of a slapper as me?” Éowyn gave him a grin.

Mablung laughed. “No, it's a way of saying that her mother's a fire breathing dragon who'd use my balls for dumplings in the stew if she thought I'd so much as even _considered_ having a crafty hand shandy while just _thinking_ of her daughter. Even if I was thinking of it in Ithilien while her daughter was in Forlond.”

Éowyn burst out laughing, and giggled till she was reduced to brushing tears and snot away with the back of her hand. Mablung joined in. Eventually Éowyn spluttered, “So you just gaze into her eyes while holding her hand...”

“That's about it,” admitted Mablung, ruefully. “Mind you, if we ever got the chance... Her ma says we've got to wait to get married till I've got a commission and can get a transfer back nearer to Forlond. Trouble is, I like the Rangers.” He looked at Éowyn thoughtfully. “Can I ask you something? Just on the off chance me and Isabet ever get away from her ma's eagle eye. How do you... well... without getting up the duff?”

“Well, to start with it was relatively easy – there's a remedy we use in the Mark. It sounds horrible, but it works – not always, but the odds are not bad, maybe five to one – drinking pregnant mare's piss.”

“You're having me on!” Mablung looked slightly green.

“No, it's almost like it fools your body into thinking it's already with child. Makes your tits get a bit tender, but other than that it's all right. Well apart from tasting fucking disgusting. Not fool proof but it makes it a lot less likely. Trouble is once we destroyed the bridge I couldn't get to the farmer I used to get it from. Since then, I've mostly been taking my chances.”

“Shit! So you might be with child right now!”

“No, my moon flow came on two days ago.”

“Ah, that explains why you almost bit wee Anborn's head off the other day.” Mablung winked at her.

“Wasn't that, he was just being a prat.”

“Fair enough. But … it's a hell of a risk. I mean, what would you do?”

“Well,” said Éowyn, thoughtfully, “If the worst happened, there's a tisane of oil of rue, raspberry leaves and willow bark which sometimes does the trick. But it's far from guaranteed. Then if that doesn't work, some women resort to a long bodkin. But that's bloody dangerous – as like to kill you as to shift the bairn. So I suppose I'd have to go back to the Mark. Éomer would throw a fit. I think I'd probably spin them some yarn about how I'd married the younger son of some noble, and he'd been killed in a skirmish, so here I was newly widowed and with child. They wouldn't believe it, but wouldn't be able to prove it wasn't true. They'd send me off to some far-flung manor to bear my shame in private.”

“But surely the captain would do right by you... you only have to look at the man to know he thinks the sun shines out of your... well, he's very keen on you. And you know him – too bloody honourable for his own good, sometimes.”

“His father wouldn't allow it.” Éowyn's face suddenly looked very bleak. “On the surface, he was icily polite to me when I met him face to face, though the bastard took every chance he could to hint on the sly at what he thought of me and my character. But the next day, I overheard them talking – I shouldn't have done, but the window was open and I couldn't resist it. And then the gloves really came off. 

“According to his father, apparently if Faramir 'had to take a courtesan', his father was relieved he'd found one of 'noble, though debased and foreign, birth' and at least it looked as though I was sufficiently prudent to take only one lover at a time and thus 'not expose him to the agues so frequently associated with common harlots.' But I am not of Gondor and apparently his father will not countenance 'the mixing of the high blood of Numenor with that of the lower men of the twilight lands.' Especially not with some slut who 'holds her virtue so cheap that she will lie like a sow in heat with a common captain, even one of such high birth.' After all, once a slut, always a slut: 'A woman who will sleep with one man outside the sacred bond of marriage would sleep with any. If a man was fool enough to marry her, he would have only himself to blame when she cuckolded him, as she inevitably would'. Though of course the old bastard does think his son is a fool... so he holds himself responsible for preventing Faramir from debasing himself in marriage. So, no marriage.”

“Fuck! Fucking bastard cunting arsehole...” Mablung drew in his breath in a low whistle. He resorted to a string of soldier's oaths that impressed even Éowyn with their sheer inventiveness. “How did the captain react?”

Éowyn gave a dark laugh. “He lost his temper completely and yelled something very predictable about how he would not stand by to hear me traduced by such infamous slander, then stormed out slamming the door behind him. He still doesn't know that I heard the whole thing.”

“There, you see, he would stand by you.”

Éowyn shook her head. “You just don't get it, Mablung. There's more important things at stake here. What would he do? Desert his post and follow me to the Mark? He guards the most dangerous part of the border with the land of the shadow – do you think he can abandon that, no matter what he feels for me? No, if I were to get a child, and the tisane didn't work, I'd ride for the Mark and never look back, and the captain would never know.” Suddenly she looked him in the eye, as serious as on the eve of battle. “Swear to me you wouldn't tell him.”

Mablung nodded. He looked very solemn. “We'd best pray to the Valar that you don't, then.”

Éowyn grinned, and said, “Of course that's the other option – 'Pull and pray' – but hell, where's the fun in that?”

~o~O~o~

Faramir returned to Henneth Annûn a few days after Éowyn. Their lives fell into a pattern that, had it not had so many terrifying moments, might almost have qualified for the term 'routine'. Periods in the caves, filled with drill and tending to arms and armour, alternated with patrols, in which the odds felt desperate. Now that the retreat was behind enemy lines, even greater pains had to be taken to conceal its presence. Most of the time, there were no fires for fear of the smoke being seen - only a few weather conditions allowed for the risk of lighting a fire. This meant that for the most part meals consisted of hard tack and dried meats, and whatever fruits or vegetables could be eaten raw. Éowyn rapidly got to the point where she felt that the only use she would willingly put either a carrot or even an apple to would be feeding Windfola. She grew to look forward to occasional trips to the river crossing at Cair Andros in hope of a hot square meal.

Late summer passed into autumn, and Éowyn found herself thinking once again that Ithilien provided a rare treat. In her native land further north autumn was pleasant, a drawn-out time of yellow and brown leaves and fruit. But here, further south, it seemed to come and go in a blaze of colour – not dull browns and yellows, but dazzling reds and golds. The season itself seemed to pass more quickly than she was used to, but with an intensity she could not have guessed at. But as soon as the last leaves fell, the first chill of winter began to bite, a chill felt all the more keenly because they could not risk fires for most of the time. For this part of Ithilien was still a fair way north, and their hideout was high in the mountains. November passed in a damp miasma of fogs and rain, rain which took on an icy edge, then early December arrived, and with it the first flurries of snow.

The cold weather seemed to get into Éowyn's bones, and from the grumbling of the rest of the rangers, it seemed everyone else was as miserable as she was. It seemed almost impossible to get warm, even with Faramir wrapping his limbs round her in bed at night. Though their efforts to get warm were not without their humorous side. One evening, Éowyn arrived back after a patrol; Faramir had not yet returned from the river fort. Feeling even colder than usual, and rather miserable, she crawled into bed, pulling the blankets and furs over her, and wishing yet again that they could have a fire. She wasn't quite sure what time of night it was when Faramir finally climbed into the bed beside her. She was vaguely aware of the dim light of an oil lamp, then a slight warmth, then the faint roughness of his beard on her neck as he nuzzled against her skin.

“I have missed you so much.” His voice was a whisper, a warm, husky whisper. His lips caressed her gently, his hands found their way round her body, his chest pressing against her back, his thighs cradling the backs of her legs. For a few long moments she lay there, eyes half closed, lost in the sensation of his touch. Then she rolled over to face him... and burst out laughing.

Faramir looked utterly crestfallen, and puzzled, as well as a bit hurt.

“I'm sorry,” Éowyn spluttered. “What on earth is that on your head?”

“It's a hat. It's bloody cold in here in case you haven't noticed.”

“But... it's made of rabbit fur and it's got ear flaps! I can't possibly shag a man wearing a hat with furry ear flaps...”

She more than made it up to him two days later, when she accompanied him to Minas Tirith. They stopped at an inn on the road just short of the Rammas Echor, an inn with hot stew, beer and a roaring fire, and beds warmed with warming pans. He didn't wear the hat to bed. She didn't wear anything.

~o~O~o~

Yule came and went, then the new year came. The orc attacks came harder and faster for a period, then all became curiously quiet, almost, as Faramir pointed out, as if their attention had been shifted elsewhere. The captain of the guard at Cair Andros reported that sorties upstream showed troops of orcs ranging far afield up the Great River, but to what end, none of them was sure. Faramir was filled with a growing sense of foreboding. 

January passed, and February came, and with it, strange dreams. Éowyn would wake in the darkness to find Faramir tossing in her arms, covered with a sheen of sweat despite the cold. But when he came to his senses, he was unable to recall any of the dreams he'd had. He told her that it was almost as if whatever vision he was offered pained him so much that his waking mind refused to frame it fully. All that he could remember was an overwhelming sense of something terrible about to happen.


	12. Chapter 12

It was mid February when Éowyn went with Faramir to Minas Tirith. As had become customary, she stayed in his Uncle and Aunt's town house. Annoyingly, his father decided that Faramir should stay in the Steward's palace.

The visit was a short one. Faramir had expected to be sent back to Henneth Annûn post haste, but instead his father instructed him to go to the garrison on the western side of Anduin, in the ruins of Osgiliath. Denethor had received intelligence that troops were massing once more on the eastern shore, a mixture of orcs, Haradrim and Easterlings. Once again, Faramir found himself wondering with some disquiet what the source of his father's intelligence was. He himself knew the eastern shore, the secret paths and hideouts of Ithilien, like the lines on his own hand. Yet neither he nor his scouts had picked up any obvious signs of troop movements. He could not help but question, therefore, what it was that made his father so certain of an impending attack.

He tried to enquire, but his questions were dismissed peremptorily. On the surface, his father seemed to hold his customary annoyance towards his younger son, seasoned with more than a dash of disdain. But Faramir sensed that on this occasion, the annoyance was in part a theatrical performance designed to deflect his attention from an underlying uneasiness on his father's part. There was definitely something his father was not telling him about the source of his intelligence. Whether this was because there was something suspect about its origins, and he did not care to open it to critical scrutiny, or whether he was worried that Faramir might at some later date be captured and did not want him to reveal the extent to which Denethor had infiltrated the enemy and gather information, he was not sure. But the Steward's evasiveness left Faramir feeling deeply unsettled.

In the dark hours of the night, the inky blackness of the new moon, Faramir woke with a start. Instinctively he reached out for Éowyn, lying beside him, only for his hand to meet an empty space. With a sinking heart and a feeling of empty need, he realised she was at his Uncle's townhouse and he alone in his father's palace. Seized with disquiet he sat up and ran his hand through his hair. The night was deathly silent, and Faramir found himself straining as if to hear some sound just out of earshot. 

Then the sound came to him once more, drifting through the window from the north. He was not sure whether he did indeed hear it, or whether his overwrought imagination was playing tricks on him. But it sounded like a faint echo of his brother's horn, the great ox horn bound with silver which Boromir always carried. He had last heard it blowing in challenge as his brother rode out of the gates of the Citadel the previous summer. But his memory was carried back further, to the moment when Boromir sounded the retreat at Osgiliath and the bridge came crashing down behind them as they dived into the water. Then, the horn note had sounded the retreat from evil beyond imagining, and somehow this memory infused the faint echoes in his mind with an immeasurable feeling of foreboding.

Knowing sleep would not come to him again, he swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood up. Reaching for the table, he found a steel and flint, and quickly struck a spark to light the oil lamp which sat beside the bed, then pulled on his clothes. He wrapped his cloak around his body to keep out the damp night air, and made his way swiftly down the passage and up the spiral stair at the far end to the battlements where the Steward's palace abutted one of the inner walls of the Citadel.

By the dull glow of the torch hanging from the wall, he could dimly make out the figure of his father, attended by two of the Tower Guards. He made his way to his father's side.

“I should have known you would hear it too.” His father's words were not a question. The tone was less dismissive than usual, though no less bitter. Or was it perhaps fear that Faramir heard? He could not quite tell.

“Yes, the note of Boromir's horn, carried on the night wind from the north.”

“An ill omen.” Again, the words were not a question.

“I fear so, father.” Faramir found he could not continue. Words threatened to burst forth: his instinct was to cry to the heavens. _Why, oh why did you not let me ride in his place? The dream came first to me – to me should have fallen the burden of seeing the allotted task to completion. Instead, you chose to oppose the fates, to set another on the path chosen for me, and all has gone awry._ But he bit his tongue and remained silent.

“Time will tell,” Denethor continued. “It seems I ventured the most precious thing I possessed on an ill-considered stratagem, and now I am to pay a heavy price, the heaviest imaginable.” His voice dropped to a quiet murmur, Faramir's presence seemingly forgotten. “Boromir, my son, my first born, my best beloved, would that you were still by my side.”

Faramir stood awkwardly for a few moments as his father lapsed into silence and stared into the dark, facing north. Eventually, unable to bear the tension any longer, he gave the slightest of bows and said, “We must pray to the Valar that the horn call summoned allies to his aid and was not the harbinger of desperate tidings. I bid you good night, father.” He turned and paced back along the battlement, returning to his cold chamber where he lay in the darkness, staring at a vaulted ceiling he could not see, until at last the dim grey light of dawn began to creep through the windows.

The next day, Faramir and Éowyn rode back across the Pelennor to Osgiliath. As they rode, Faramir told Éowyn of the previous night's strange events. She listened, a serious, intent look on her face, and said little. She too was seized by a feeling that something terrible had happened, a feeling not helped by her memory of her last conversation with Boromir, in which he had asked her to name their first-born son for him. Eventually, running out of words, they rode the rest of the way to the river in silence. 

Having checked the situation at the garrison, on the advice of Lieutenant Hatholdir, they headed north up the river bank to an encampment opposite an outcrop on the far shore where the enemy had been sighted in numbers. The camp was set some way back from the riverbank, out of sight among the trees, and being on the west side, Lieutenant Hatholdir's second-in-command had risked tents rather than bivouacs. There they bedded down for the night. Faramir had picked a quiet corner of the camp for their tent, and it was with a sense of enormous relief that he was finally able to wrap his arm round Éowyn's waist and hold her close. But it was a long time before he finally drifted into sleep, and even then his rest was shallow and fitful.

That night was the only night they had to sleep together; thereafter for the next couple of days they found themselves standing alternate watches, Faramir the first watch after sunset, and Éowyn the later watch after moonset. The sense of foreboding grew steadily, but all remained quiet until the third night.

~o~O~o~

Éowyn once again had the second watch, and was rolled up in her cloak, trying to get some sleep as best she could before she went down to the bank of the river to keep a look-out for enemy movements. But sleep would not come. The night was cold, a sharp frost already in the air, and the chill seemed to penetrate even the thick wool around her. She dozed fitfully. Every time she started to drift off, something would disturb her watch – an owl's hoot, the rustle of a badger in the undergrowth, a wildcat or pine marten amid the trees. Eventually, she decided she might as well get up and relieve Faramir earlier than planned. She pulled her arms free of the cocoon she had made with her cloak, and started to parcel it up. She crawled through the flap in the tent.

Out to the west, the sliver of crescent moon hung low in the sky. It must be close to midnight, close to moonset. There was hardly any light to find her way by, and for the most part she made her way along the narrow track by feel, carefully placing her feet so as not to trip over roots or hidden stones. As so often at night, a journey in the daytime would have taken five minutes seemed instead to to stretch out endlessly; she was not sure how much this was due to her hesitant pace, and how much due to the way darkness seemed to stretch out time itself, spinning it into a long, tenuous filament of silver to match the moon. Finally she stepped through last of the thinning trees and onto the path along the river bank. The water flowed, dark and oily looking, sluggish at this point where the stream was wide and deep and slow. All the rage and fury of the rapids and the falls of Rauros had been spent upstream; now the river seemed to have no ire left and was content to flow silently and smoothly to the distant sea.

She rounded a bend and saw him standing upright, still as a statue. To her surprise, he made no movement as she approached, almost as if he had not heard her. It was most unlike him not to be perfectly attuned to his surroundings. When she got within a few paces, she lifted her hands to her mouth and cupped them, and made the low hooting sound that the Rangers used to alert one another to their presence. She had no wish to take him unawares.

Slowly, he turned, and Éowyn froze mid-step. His face was stricken by grief. By the dim light she could just make out silver trails on his cheeks. In that moment, Éowyn too was hit by a wave of sadness. The look on his face pierced her to the heart, brought back every loss she had ever suffered: her father, her mother, her beloved cousin Théodred. Faramir's face seemed lined beyond his years, his eyes sunk with anguish, his expression filled with bleak desolation. Silently, he turned back to face the river.

As if the spell lifted, Éowyn moved again. Slowly, she made her way to his side and reached out to place her hand on his arm.

“He has gone. Gone to the sea, cast adrift in a boat, arrayed in splendour, like the sea kings of Numenor.”

“You saw him?”

“Yes, laid out in splendour and majesty, his weapons by his sides, the weapons of his foes piled at his feet.”

“But... Rauros... How?”

“I know not. Whether it was his body, brought safely by the Valar, or a vision sent to bear tidings of his passing... Either way he is gone.”

Suddenly, Faramir's voice broke, and he turned to Éowyn and buried his face in her shoulder. She held him as he sobbed, body shaking uncontrollably. Éowyn pulled his head tight against her, her own body filled with a tension, an ache at the pain she could feel welling up from him. Time seemed suspended, but gradually Éowyn felt Faramir's body relax in her arms, his breathing slow as the storm passed. Eventually, he loosened his grip and raised his face. He looked down at her, his expression still stricken with grief.

“Oh Éowyn, my love, what shall I do without him? I want to turn back time, make the sun run backwards across the sky. I wish that I had gone in his place. I wish that I had known to ride to his aid before I heard his horn blow. Anything... anything but this.” He stepped back from her arms and turned to look out across the inky water. With a sigh, he let his legs fold beneath him and sank onto the grassy edge of the bank. 

Éowyn sat down next to him, resting her hand in the small of his back. She felt almost nauseous with the feeling of powerlessness that clenched at her guts. Faramir's pain was agonising to behold, and yet she could do nothing to make it better. She felt that she would willingly have taken it upon herself, if only that were possible. But it was not.

They sat in silence, Éowyn's hand pressed against him, as the sliver of moon passed beneath the horizon, and the stars slowly turned in the night sky. After what she guessed was maybe an hour, maybe two, he began to speak. Over and over he described the boat, Boromir's body, his face at peace in a sleep from which he would never wake, his own proud weapons about him, his enemies' weapons at his feet. Perhaps he needed the constant retelling to make the vision real. Perhaps he hoped that if he retold it enough times, eventually it would end in a different way. Éowyn was not sure. 

Interspersed with this tale was the repeated memory of the meeting with his father in which Denethor had peremptorily dismissed Faramir's claim that the quest was his to go on, since the vision had been sent to him, and had instead made the fateful decision to send Boromir. Éowyn could hear the tortured guilt in his voice, as if Faramir thought that somehow there should have been something he could have done to have made his father act rationally. Éowyn remembered the scene all too well, remembered his father's harsh words. Those words had been aimed both to herself, which she could understand if not forgive, and to his younger son, which she would never forgive. She knew that there was nothing Faramir could have done to have altered Denethor's decision. But at the same time she also knew there was nothing she could do now to make Faramir realise that. There was nothing she could do except listen.

A thin line of cold grey had started to light the sky just above the mountains in the distance beyond the far bank of the river when Hatholdir's sergeant arrived to relieve Éowyn of her watch. He seemed surprised to find Faramir still there, and it was clear from the tone of his voice that he suspected them of having been dallying with one another rather than paying attention to the far shore. Éowyn deflected his questions. She could not deny that she had not really paid much attention to her watch duty, though she would have given anything for the reason for her inattention to have been as trivial as the sergeant thought it was.

She led Faramir back to the encampment and guided him into the tent. As the first rays of the fitful winter sun began to creep between the tree tops, the two finally lay down to rest. Éowyn pulled the blankets tight around them, wrapped her arms around Faramir and held him close as he finally sank into an exhausted sleep.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Have you ever wondered why the oliphaunt went on the rampage?

The week since that fateful night by Anduin had passed in a haze. Faramir had returned to Henneth Annûn, accompanied by Éowyn. Life was, as ever, filled with preparations for the coming onslaught, a war which threatened to sweep down on them with the inevitability of gathering storm clouds. Already skirmishes took place almost daily, like the first gusts of wind presaging the deluge. For all his sadness, or perhaps because of his sadness, Faramir threw himself into his duty with a single-mindedness which left no room for anything else. Éowyn began to feel almost surplus to requirements, yet at the same time knew that without her he would founder and sink in the sea of his grief. After long days in the field with his troops, most nights he had stayed late writing dispatches, reading intelligence reports, plotting troop positions on maps, planning forays and ambushes. But tonight, finally reaching a standstill with exhaustion, he came to their tiny chamber not long after she had retired.

Faramir lifted the edge of the covers and slid into bed beside Éowyn. He paused, propped up on one elbow, and looked down at her.

“I am sorry I have been so distant these last days,” he murmured.

“How could you not have been?” Éowyn's voice came in an answering whisper. She snaked her arms about his neck and drew him down towards her, expecting him to do as he had done for the last week: curl up chastely within the comforting cradle of her arms, his head pillowed upon her breast. She was slightly surprised then, when he dipped his head and kissed her. The kiss was almost tentative to start with, but rapidly grew in passion, then almost seemed to take on an edge of desperation.

Suddenly, all the bottled-up desire which Éowyn had pushed to the back of her mind over the previous days flared up. She ran her fingers through his dark hair and held his head as she kissed him back fiercely, then pulled his body hard against hers. She spread her legs wide and slid one hand over his arse, clutching him in tight against her.

Their coupling was hard, fast, messy, clumsy almost. Body parts in the wrong place, elbows into soft flesh, noses bumping together. It wasn't love-making, it was fucking – needy, desperate, fucking. Fucking full of a sadness beyond words. The searing heat of orgasm drove away the sadness for a moment, but then it flooded back. Faramir lay on top of her, his body stuck to hers with sweat, strands of his hair stuck to his forehead.

“By all that's sacred, I miss him so.”

“I know.”

Éowyn paused, unsure whether to say anything more. Maybe this was the wrong time. But then they had built a whole... whatever this was... on doing and saying the wrong thing at the wrong time. Fucking in the woods when they should have been tracking orcs. Needlessly falling out over Faramir's ridiculously over-developed sense of right and wrong. His proposal spurred by a fit of rage at his father. Nearly getting caught by Boromir in their uncle's garden, Faramir's clever tongue buried deep in her wem. _Oh, fuck it! I'm just going to say it._

“I love you.”

~o~O~o~

The next morning, Éowyn got the sense that Faramir had slept better. He seemed more in control, more himself, less some sort of puppet held up by the strings of his duty. He seemed somehow to be in the present moment rather than acting a part.

They were acting on reports of a large Southron force near the hidden caves, and had made their way through the woods to engage. The captain stopped in a small clearing, and signalled for his officers and NCOs to join him, unrolling a piece of parchment and pulling out a stick of charcoal with which to annotate it.

Faramir outlined his plan. The Southrons were moving along the forest track, and there was a place where the track zig-zagged steeply up hill, at one point narrowing as it curved round an immense outcrop of stone, the ground to the lower side falling away steeply.

“We place archers here...” He gestured to the sketch he was drawing on the ground pointing to places on the uphill slope to either side of the outcrop, “and here. The first set open fire as the van are just past the great cliff, then as they try to retreat and consolidate their position, the second, lower group of archers attack from behind.”

“What of the higher path?” Damrod interjected.

“The scouts suggest that the main strength of the force is taking the lower path, which is not surprising, given that it's more direct. But you're right, we can't neglect the upper one, which is why I was planning on sending Éowyn, Anborn and a small group of archers to keep an eye on the upper path.”

Éowyn nodded, and moved closer to look at the map Faramir was sketching on the ground. She and Anborn asked various questions about what courses of action would be appropriate should they encounter a secondary force, depending on its size, then, feeling they had a reasonable idea of what Faramir expected of them, they set off up hill with a dozen or so rangers.

It was a steep and awkward climb. There was no real track, just hints of goat and deer runs through the shrub between trees. Though the biting cold of earlier in the winter had eased, the air held a damp chill. Despite the chill, Éowyn was soon sweaty from the effort of beating her way through the undergrowth. The remains of last year's bracken and brambles, brown and seemingly lifeless after the winter, scraped at any exposed flesh.

Eventually they reached the upper track, and were able to move more rapidly, though each bend had to be approached with caution in case they found themselves face-to-face with the enemy. About half a league along the track they found the place Faramir had mapped out for them; a scar in the hillside where a landslip had cleared the trees. At this point, the path was reduced to a messy scar of boulder strewn mud. Equally importantly, the bare slope above gave a vista over the approaches to the awkward section. Once hidden in the trees on the edge of the landslip, the rangers would have the ideal vantage point from which to pick off the enemy, who would be slowed by the bottleneck of the boulders obstructing the path.

They struggled up the muddy, rocky slope. Recent rain had left it slippery underfoot, treacherous. But before too long they were all in position.

“Do you think we'll be able to hear the Lieutenant's bugle call from here? How will we know if the main engagement has started?” Anborn whispered.

“I'm not sure. I think we should hear it, but it's a long way, and the mist hanging lower down the slopes damps the sound,” Éowyn replied, then found her mind drifting off to a day nearly a year earlier, caught on a wooded slope not unlike this one, in a thick mist. She couldn't help the grin that came to her unbidden, but rapidly got herself back under control. Now was not the time to lose concentration. They settled down to wait. And wait. And wait.

~o~O~o~

“Something should have happened by now,” Anborn hissed.

“Maybe it has and we just didn't hear the bugle. No matter, the Captain will send a scout when he needs us, or we return, as agreed, when the sun gets within an hour or so of the horizon.”

Éowyn's words were cut short as she caught a sound on the air – not the long-awaited bugle call, but a faint noise of footfalls, of jingling harness and gear. There were enemy troops on this upper path. But how many? 

The unspoken question was answered a moment later as about a score of Haradrim came into view around the curve in the track. Éowyn waited until the band were directly below the trees in which the rangers were hiding, then gave the signal to loose their arrows. All around her, bows sang, and a deadly hail of arrows rained down on the men below. Several fell; the rest turned and fled back down the track.

To Éowyn's horror, Anborn broke cover, followed by the four men closest to him. The young ranger gave a loud cry.

“Get the rest of the bastards!”

“Anborn, you stupid fucker, come back here,” Éowyn yelled as loudly as she could, but to no avail. Anborn might as well have been struck deaf.

The five of them skidded down the mud slope in a clatter of stones, then set off along the path in hot pursuit of the Haradrim, swords drawn and ready. Éowyn felt that she had no choice. She and the remaining rangers followed, though not quite so precipitately. They had almost reached the sharp bend in the track when, with another loud yelp, Anborn reappeared, running at full tilt, closely followed by his fellow idiots.

“Mûmak,” he gasped. His eyes were wide with fear. Caught in the heat of the moment, Éowyn struggled to understand the obscure Sindarin word. Then, at the same instant she remembered its meaning, the beast itself came lumbering round the corner at a canter. It was the biggest animal Éowyn had ever seen. Huge, grey, sagging, wrinkled skin covered an enormous frame. Its nose, like a snake, waved furiously between fearsome pointed tusks, sharp sabres of ivory as long as a man was tall. Its ears flapped as it ran, its eyes small and red and furious. On its back was a structure almost like a miniature guard tower, fashioned out of wood and cloth, in which stood two men with curved bows. A third perched on the beast's neck, obviously steering the beast, though Éowyn was uncertain as to how much control he exerted. For an instant she froze, rooted to the spot by sheer terror.

Beside Éowyn, Halvir, probably the most skilled bowman in the platoon after Faramir himself, turned side on to the beast in the classic archer's pose. He had four arrows held ready between his fingers. One after another, as fast as flames licking through dry tinder, he nocked them to the string, drew, and let them fly. One after another, they found their mark, though not perfectly. The first killed one of the bowmen, the second speared the rider through his shoulder, causing him to lurch to one side, but not unseating him. The third glanced off the beast's flank; its skin seemed to be as tough as bronze. But there were some soft spots – the third struck the beast just in front of its ear, and hung there. With a huge trumpeting bellow, the mûmak threw back its head and shook it, desperately trying to detach the agonising dart. This movement did succeed in throwing the rider, but one foot seemed caught in some sort of stirrup attached to a band round the animal's neck. The man, his red and gold robes flapping round his head, hung upside down by one leg. The enraged beast was now completely out of control, and seemingly intent on charging down the archers who had caused it such pain.

“Run for the river,” yelled Eowyn, “draw it away from the ambush site.” Without further ado, all of the rangers started to race down hill, followed by the mûmak. Éowyn sprinted through the brush, hurdling fallen branches, not even noticing as brambles and twigs whipped her arms. Behind her she could hear the thundering footfalls of the rampaging animal. She realised that she had got separated from Anborn and his group by a stream bed which was rapidly steepening into a narrow gorge. 

“Bugger,” she managed to mutter in between gasps for breath. _He goes and annoys the blasted thing, but it ends up on my side of the gorge._

The situation looked dire. The mûmak was gaining on her, steadily. Éowyn was on the brink of exhaustion. Her side was on fire, gripped by an agonising stitch. Her leg muscles were cramping. Sweat dripped into her eyes, stinging and half blinding her. And she could hear that snorting and trumpeting getting ever closer. She snatched a quick glance over her shoulder, only to realise that within a few strides the beast would be able to trample her into the ground. In desperation she turned her gaze back down hill, and put every last ounce of strength she had into sprinting.

Suddenly a blow like Morgoth's great hammer Grond hit her from the side. Winded, she crashed to the ground, certain she had been hit a glancing blow by one of the animal's feet. She screwed up her eyes and braced herself for the finishing stroke, sure that any instant she was going to be crushed.

“Wyn, are you alright?” She opened her eyes to see Halvir sprawled to one side. The mûmak crashed onwards, down through the trees. The fierce blow that she thought had been one of its huge feet had in fact been her fellow ranger, tackling her to the ground, his shoulder hitting her lower ribs. He had managed to throw them both clear of the beast's path.

She tried to speak, but for a moment couldn't say anything as she struggled to get air back into her lungs. Eventually, in more of a wheeze than any sort of coherent speech, she managed to grunt out her thanks. Halvir got to his feet, then reached out a hand to pull her back up.

~o~O~o~

Mablung sat, not far from the strange halfling creatures they'd rounded up earlier in the day. He was within earshot of the captain; he liked to know what was going on. Anborn was telling the captain of his encounter with the black squirrel with no tail, or so he half-jokingly called it. Only half-joking, though, for it was clear that Anborn was unsettled and felt the creature to be of fell purpose. Two things were apparent to Mablung, as he watched those around him in his characteristically shrewd way. The first was that the hobbits were concealing something: they started when Anborn mentioned his squirrel, but then steadfastly attempted not to give anything away, looking at the wall of the recess or at the blankets on the low couches they had been offered as though walls and blankets were the most fascinating things they had yet seen on their travels. The second thing was that there was something Anborn was not telling Faramir.

Faramir picked up on this, of course. Mablung didn't even know why he was surprised. His captain picked up on everything.

“Where are Éowyn and the rest of the group of archers you were with at the start of the day, Anborn?”

Mablung just about made out Anborn's muttered words – something about the mûmak, getting separated, fleeing down hill on opposite sides of a river gorge. Anborn couldn't look Faramir in the face. For his part, the captain became ashen-white: he held it together, but Mablung could see it was a struggle. Then, as if on cue, the door which led from the steps swung open. Pushing her hood back from her face, Éowyn stepped in.

In three or four strides, the captain crossed the hall to her. He took both her hands in his and raised them to his lips. Mablung could see him talking to her in a low voice – from his face, he guessed that the captain was giving the shieldmaiden something of a dressing down for scaring him so badly. Though it looked as though the shieldmaiden had a thing or two of her own to say in response, high spots of colour appearing on her cheeks. To Mablung's surprise, Anborn suddenly came up and interrupted the tender moment. Under the pretext of hanging his cloak on the pole near the door to dry, Mablung moved within earshot.

“... Sorry sir, completely my fault... broke cover... didn't realise there was a mûmak...”

Faramir's look of ashen fear of a few tens of minutes earlier had now been replaced by a look of white fury. He summoned Damrod over, and said something very quietly to him. Mablung swallowed. That sort of quiet fury was the worst sort. Damrod nodded curtly to Faramir and turned to Anborn.

“Come with me, laddie,” the Lieutenant said, gesturing to the far end of the cave.

Faramir turned back to Éowyn and grasped her hands once more.

“I am sorry my love, for my precipitate accusations. It's just... if I were to lose you as well... I don't think I could stand it.” His voice sounded choked, muffled as if he fought to keep control of it.

“Don't take it out on Anborn,” Éowyn replied, reaching up to touch his cheek. “Yes, he cocked it up, cocked it up big time. But punish him as if it was someone else he had put at risk, not me. Don't let your feelings for me dictate a harsher punishment than he deserves...”

Faramir nodded his assent, then caught sight of Mablung out of the corner of his eye and glared at him. Mablung decided the time had come to make himself scarce and made his way back to the corner where the hobbits were billeted. At first he thought they were both asleep, but then he gave a start as the slightly stouter (or perhaps _less emaciated_ was a better description) of the two spoke to him.

“Surely the captain hasn't brought his wife out here into all this danger?”

Mablung almost blurted out _that's not his wife_ , but bit his tongue in the nick of time.

“The captain's wife is a soldier same as the rest of us – very brave woman, and probably the best here with a sword, saving the captain himself.” He told himself the lie was justified; somehow he wasn't comfortable with even a passing stranger thinking the shield-maiden was some sort of camp follower. But then it struck him that he wasn't really lying at all. In all the ways that mattered, the captain and the lady were as good as married.

~o~O~o~

Éowyn lay on her side, Faramir curled round her back, his hand idly stroking her hair. He had finally come to the end of his lengthy exposition of the day's events. For many moments she did not speak. She felt as though she had been struck dumb by his information. Eventually, she managed to frame her thoughts sufficiently to say something, though her words sounded idiotic to her ears, merely repeating as if by rote what Faramir had just told her.

“So this halfling carries the ring the dark lord made in ages past, a ring so powerful that with it he can enslave the whole world? And that tiny creature intends to go to Mordor and throw it into the fiery mountain, to save us all? And he's going to do it accompanied only by his... his... gardener?” She wriggled round in his arms so she could see his face, only to find a small smile playing about his lips. He gave a quiet chuckle.

“When you put it like that, it does seem like the most absurd misadventure in the history of the world. Were I alone facing all this, I would probably think us all doomed, if this is our best, indeed, our only hope. We probably are all doomed. But I have you to live for, so I refuse to believe it is so.” He pressed his lips to hers just for a moment.

“And the rest of us? What part can we play?” Éowyn asked him.

“Fight on. Fight on until either the halflings complete their quest against all the odds, or the war is lost. There is nothing else we can do. We must gamble all on one last throw of the die. But win or lose, live or die, I will face what is to come by your side. And if death is our fate, we will come before Mandos together, hand in hand.”


	14. Chapter 14

Éowyn stared sightlessly into the dark. Beside her, she could hear Faramir's steady breathing. Normally that alone would be enough to calm her, but not tonight. Tonight she was restless, plagued by recurrent thoughts that started out as an amorphous feeling of irritability, anger almost, and gradually began to shape itself into a voice.

“They never treated you exactly the same, did they? You got to play with your sword, but that was it, wasn't it? You were always playing. They let you be a shieldmaiden, but it wasn't the same as being a real warrior, was it? And now – you're sort of a soldier, but really not quite a real soldier.” She rolled over, trying to get clear of the uncomfortable wrinkle in the mattress, trying to shut out the sudden images of all those times in her childhood when a boy, larger than her, had knocked her over or swept her legs from under her. By an act of will she tried to turn her thoughts to more recent events. She'd worked and worked, got faster, better, more skilled with a sword until the bigger boys couldn't get close enough to trip her. And now look at her: acknowledged as one of the best with a sword among the Rangers.

But then the voice started up again. “You think it's skill don't you? Have you never heard of misplaced, groundless pride? You're tolerated here because you're the captain's mistress. Yes, that's right, his mistress, not his wife. His father has the right take on it, doesn't he? You know that to be true, know it deep down. A woman who'd spread her legs before marriage... good enough to be a mistress but not a wife. In your heart of hearts you know the captain would have married you and damn the consequences if he really thought you were good enough. But he hasn't married you, has he? Hasn't stood up to his father... but you know he could have done. If he'd really wanted to. So here you are – playing with a sword, but not a real soldier, playing with his _sword_ but not a real wife.”

Where was the voice coming from? And why couldn't she make it go away, switch it off, make her thoughts go elsewhere. Then abruptly, the voice changed tack, its tone shifting subtly, persuasively.

“But you could be a real soldier. Could be more than that – a captain general, even a warrior queen. You could lead armies. No one would look at you and see the little girl with the toy sword, copying her brother, her brother the real warrior. They would see a queen from ancient legend, arrayed in shining armour, holding her keen sword aloft. All would follow you. All would give you unquestioning obedience. You could lead your country, conquer your enemies. You would stand, alone, peerless, admired by your troops, feared by your enemies, respected by all. None would doubt your prowess as a warrior.”

The images flooded up before her. Standing proud in the midst of the Pelennor, fighting off the waves of invaders coming from the river. Denethor kneeling before her to kiss her hand. Acknowledged as monarch of all, a warrior queen come from the north to take the empty throne of Gondor for her own. “All this is within your grasp. Think about the truth. The hobbit is almost at the end of his strength. He cannot make the journey all the way to Mordor. He would welcome his release from his burden. And you have a strength he does not, strength enough to wield it to help your people, to become queen of all free peoples. They would welcome you, the warrior who had thrown down their enemy.” Eowyn's gut clenched with a sudden fear. So this was where the voice was going... This was who the voice was... “The ring is but a few paces away, through that door. The hobbit could not fight you off...” 

_No, no, I will not take it..._ Éowyn heard a second voice in her head, her own voice. But it sounded distant and tortured. _Begone, you lie._

“But you know I do not lie,” whispered the voice. “You know I speak the truth. Now you are but a camp follower with a blunt sword, but you could be an empress. All that you have to do is to reach out and take the ring. You need not be particularly forceful. The hobbit is exhausted. He would be glad to give it to someone whom he could trust – and who better to trust than a woman.”

_No, no!_ Again her own voice, but fainter still.

The voice paused, then took on a sweeter tone. “He would respect you. No longer would you be simply his mistress. Were you a queen he would drop to his knees at your feet, begging to marry you. When you told him you loved him, he would tell you he returned that love. You could ask anything of him you chose... you could ask him to take a dagger to his father's heart and he would, unquestioningly.”

She sat up suddenly, spoke aloud, astonished at how strong her voice sounded. 

“Begone, get thee hence from here.” The voice had over-reached itself, had painted a vision so palpably false that all its work in undermining her self belief, filling her with self doubt, had vanished like mist in the morning sun. Nothing, not even his love for her, would ever make Faramir a murderer. The voice was false in this, and in grasping this, so she saw it to be false in all things.

Still, her heart pounded and sweat trickled down her spine. But her sudden movement and words had woken Faramir. His hand reached out to her, and then he fumbled for the steel beside the bed, struck a spark and lit the lamp. In the flickering light he looked at her.

“What is the matter, my love?”

Éowyn lay back down, close to him. She rested her cheek on his chest, feeling the comforting soft hair beneath her skin.

“Just a nightmare,” she whispered. And her gut twisted as though someone had stabbed her. Why was she lying, even if only by omission? She had never lied to him. Why did she feel guilty about what were just thoughts, so guilty that she could not even tell him?

“Shush, sleep now,” he murmured, stroking her hair gently. But it was long before she could sleep, tormented now not by the false voice of temptation, but her own inner voice saying “Why did you not speak to him?” And she knew the answer: the one thing she could not shake off was the thought that she was just his mistress, not good enough to be his wife.

~o~O~o~

“They have gone. May the Valar protect them,” Faramir said, watching the small figures disappear round the bend in the track.

“Thank the gods they have gone, taking that evil thing with them. I marvel at your strength of mind, your virtue, that it could not tempt you.” Éowyn looked up at Faramir's face as she spoke. Then she blushed. “I lied last night. It was not a nightmare. The ring seemed to speak to me, or at least a voice pleading on its behalf, telling me to take it from Frodo. I almost succumbed. In the end it was only when it made the mistake of painting a picture of you which was so entirely false that I realised all the rest of what it said was lies. Yet for you it held no lure.”

“No lure, for there is nothing it could give me that I desired. But it is not true that it held no hold over me – but of that I will not speak,” Faramir replied. But he could not help remembering: _You have nothing to offer that could tempt me, for that which I want above all things, I already have, not taken by force through black magic, but given freely – her love._ Then he heard that black voice whispering _There is nothing I could give you... but I could take..._ Then a vision had filled his mind, a vision of the black robes of the witch king, his mace held high, ready to strike. The scene had shifted, to Éowyn's lifeless body, her shield-arm shattered by the stroke of the mace, her hair of spun sunlight flowing over the black mud of the battlefield, her pale face bereft of life-blood.

Faramir shuddered, and put his arm around Éowyn, drawing her close. “It is indeed evil, and I too am glad it is gone.”

~o~O~o~

The rest of the morning after the hobbits had gone was spent collating intelligence reports from the various watchers who made their way back to the secret refuge. They had been scattered through the woods by the earlier skirmish against the Southrons, not wishing to risk capture, but now they made their way back, bringing with them ill tidings. Faramir spread out his map and placed the various coloured stones upon it. Eventually he straightened and pushed his dark hair back from his face. He shook his head as if not quite able to believe what he was looking at.

“It looks about as bad as it could possibly be, Damrod. There's no doubt that a main force is heading for Osgiliath in huge numbers, to try to seize the crossing, bridge or no, and push on towards Minas Tirith. And there's a smaller, secondary force heading for Cair Andros.”

Damrod could see the situation as clearly as Faramir. “What's the best course of action, Sir? We can't hold them here. We're good for ambushes against small forces, harrying them and making a nuisance of ourselves, but not for any sort of major defence.”

“We all go to Cair Andros, as soon as the men can gather their arms and some provisions. When we get across the river, a group of us will take the horses kept there and head for Minas Tirith to give word to my father, while you take the remainder of the men down the western bank to Osgiliath to bolster numbers there. I'd better take the best horsemen we've got, for speed – so Mablung, Halvir and Éowyn.”

~o~O~o~

There was something about the air of menace that took Éowyn back to an earlier journey down this western bank, to her desperate ride to try to catch up with Faramir, fearing that he had ridden to his death in a desperate attempt to prevent the enemy taking the bridge at Osgiliath. That day had ended with the destruction of the bridge, and huge loss of life, but Faramir had survived. Faramir and Boromir, though the latter had turned out to be on borrowed time. Éowyn grimaced at the memory. Boromir, so full of life, so forthright, so straightforward and kind and honest in his dealings with her. It still didn't seem right that he had died. But now she had a sudden and acute sense that they were all living on borrowed time. This time the enemy would cross the river, would sweep all resistance before them, and bring death and destruction raining down upon the city. Surely it was now only a matter of time before she and Faramir joined his brother in the green fields of the hereafter.

It was early in the morning the day after they'd crossed at Cair Andros, and they had just passed through the breach in the Rammas Echor.

"Curse this sodding remount." Éowyn's horse skittered at the sudden call of a carrion bird. She reined it in a tight circle, rapidly regaining control. "If a bird's cry can startle it this much, what's the blasted nag going to do in a real battle?"

Faramir smiled. She was right of course; she always was about horses. The beast was a jade. But it couldn't be helped. Windfola had a strain which had needed at least a week's rest. The unfortunate nag was the best replacement the citadel's stables, stretched by the need to horse both soldiers and errand riders, could supply. In fairness, Éowyn undoubtedly coaxed more out of the animal than anyone else could have done. She had ridden it to Cair Andros after their last trip to the citadel, and it had been in the stable on the near shore ever since.

 

"Comes of gelding them. Takes all the spirit out of them." Éowyn had very firm views on this, Faramir thought with a smile. The Rohirric views on horses definitely spilled over the boundaries of common sense into superstition at times. Distinctly macho superstition at that. He remembered her shock on discovering he routinely rode a gelding. Would his troops not question his virility, she had asked, a worried frown on her face. He had simply smiled and replied, "With you in my bed every night? I doubt it."

But the smile died away from his face as he took stock of the situation. In fairness, he couldn't blame the horse for its skittishness. There was something evil abroad, something uncanny lurking in the dark mists which had rolled across the sky the day before. Uncanny and full of menace, bringing the first hints of the crippling, paralysing fear he had felt the day the bridge fell, the day he faced the dark horsemen which seemed to have ridden from Angband itself.

 

The situation didn't look good. Cair Andros wasn't sufficiently strongly defended. West Osgiliath if anything was worse - he'd left Damrod and the better part of the Rangers there to reinforce the garrison, but it wasn't enough, not by any stretch of the imagination. And now here they were, crossing the Pelennor, and he just could not shake the horrible feeling of being exposed, like a field mouse in a newly mown meadow, just waiting for the hawk to stoop.

As if some fell power could see into the secret fears of his heart, no sooner had he framed this thought than a hideous screech rent the air above him, rising and falling on the wind, clawing his courage into shreds. Beside him, Éowyn's horse bucked and reared. Only her superb horsemanship kept her in the saddle.

Faramir reached for the bugle hanging from a leather thong at his waist. He raised it to his lips and sounded the retreat, as much for the benefit of any watching from the walls who could come to their aid as for his own men, for their horses were already running wild.

Then from the lowering clouds above his head, the hawk stooped. A huge shape, black as coal, plummeted from on high, giving another of those unearthly shrieks, and streaked down, down, down, diving towards the small group of riders.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've stolen Thanwen's headcanon (from her wonderful canon gap filler, Through Shadows) that the Rohirric sense of masculinity is strongly tied up with their horses and that they believe that “real men don't ride geldings.” It's such a wonderful idea I thought it deserved another outing, if for no better reason than that it allows Faramir a great come-back.


	15. Chapter 15

The black figure dropped from the clouds towards them. Its steed stretched out cruel, curling talons. To Éowyn's horror, it seemed to be aiming straight for Faramir. Somehow, the captain managed to wheel his horse round, turning sharply. The nightmarish creature veered and soared back into the low clouds.

After that, all was chaos. Mablung was thrown from his horse, followed shortly after by Halvir. Éowyn's mount fought beneath her. She kept up a steady stream of swear-words as she struggled to maintain control. “Sodding bastard... Your sire was a sodding donkey, your dam was a mule...” Sheer bloody mindedness on her part one the day. Somehow she managed to to reach Mablung. Stooping, she grabbed his arm and hauled him up behind her. Over on the far side of the track she saw Faramir dismount, whispering all the time to his horse, then heave Halvir over its back. Halvir dangled lifelessly. Faramir swung himself back into the saddle, holding the injured ranger in place over the horse's withers.

The Nazgûl swooped for a second attack, howling their unearthly shrieks. Surely this must be the end. Éowyn felt as though she was going to be sick. Then, suddenly, she wasn't quite sure from which direction, she caught a glimpse of a blazing white light streaking towards them. The bloody horse of course skittered sideways, and it was a moment or two before Éowyn managed to get a proper look.

Across the plains from the north there swept a gleaming figure on a white horse. Éowyn's jaw dropped in amazement. The figure gleamed white, almost silver, as if glowing from within. 

The lowest of the dark creatures changed course and veered towards the shining figure. Its rider reached, as if to wield some sort of weapon weapon, but the shining figure raised his staff aloft. A flash like a bolt of lightning split the air asunder, scattering the dark creatures to the four winds.

The figure galloped to them, then, with a wave of his staff signalled for them to follow. No longer gripped with fear, but now filled with a crippling tiredness, Eowyn urged her horse to follow the white rider. She sensed rather than saw Faramir by her side, but somehow took some measure of calm from his presence.

With the last reserves of their strength, the horses stumbled to the city walls and through the gate. The great gate swung shut behind them, and the guards of the city hastened to bar them securely. A group of some half dozen or so came running up to them. Faramir eased Halvir from his horse into the arms of two of them, saying to the sergeant, “Take this man to the houses of healing as fast as you can. He was crushed beneath his horse – I fear there may be bleeding inside him.”

The sergeant saluted, and Halvir was placed on a plank of wood which had been pressed into service as a makeshift stretcher. While the guards attended to Halvir, Mablung slid down from behind Éowyn. 

As if taking in their rescuer for the first time, Faramir turned to look at the white figure, mounted on a white stallion. 

“Mithrandir,” he said, in tones of wonder. “But they said you were dead...”

“Ah, now there is a tale to tell. But it must wait until you have seen your father.” And with that, Mithrandir turned his horse towards the inner circles of the city, beckoning for Faramir to follow. Éowyn, watching from behind, saw that Faramir was sagging in the saddle. The last rally, fighting off his terror in the face of those winged monsters to rescue Halvir, had left him exhausted. 

Éowyn too nudged her horse to follow, marvelling at the beauty of the Grey Pilgrim's horse. Truly this was a king among the Mearas, the steed of Eorl the Young reborn. How, she wondered, had the wizard come to be riding it? The last she had seen, some years back in the Riddermark, Grima had persuaded Théoden King that the Grey Pilgrim brought naught but bad news. “Lathspell,” he had called him. Yet here he was riding a horse that only the king could have gifted him.

~o~O~o~

Their progress through the streets of the city had been slow. Somewhere along the way, they had acquired a most unexpected companion – yet another halfling, dressed incongruously in a child-sized version of the uniform of the guards of the White Tower. Éowyn exchanged a glance with Faramir, but it seemed that the wizard knew the halfling well. At last, they arrived at the Steward's Palace, scene of so many bitter memories for Éowyn.

She followed Faramir into the forbidding stone building, unable to stop herself remembering the last time she'd been here, when his father had as good as called her a whore. Somehow she did not think she'd be any more welcome this time. Cautiously, as they climbed the broad, sweeping staircase to the vast carved doors of the council chamber, she voiced her fears.

"I doubt he will give you any warmer welcome this time. Though I also doubt that I will get much of a welcome. Best you stand guard outside the door." Faramir led her past the great doors and down the passage way beyond towards the Steward's private chambers. The Grey Pilgrim followed them down the corridor, as did the halfling, to Éowyn's annoyance and puzzlement. But she had no time to enquire about this for Faramir and the mismatched pair of Wizard and halfling disappeared within, leaving her kicking her heels at the door.

Fragments of the conversation penetrated the door. Most of what Faramir said, presumably reports of the situation in Ithilien, was too muffled to be heard, Faramir's characteristically quiet, measured tones not carrying. But occasionally his father's voice would rise in ire, and when it did, the subject matter was almost invariably Faramir's shortcomings and the Steward's disappointment in his surviving son. "Your bearing is lowly in my presence... Yes, I wish your places had been exchanged." 

At this, Éowyn gave a sharp intake of breath. Without noticing, her hand drifted to her sword hilt. How could a father be so utterly lacking in natural affection? To wish Boromir alive – she could understand this. Faramir felt the same, she herself (though she had only known him a short time) missed him acutely. But to wish his other son dead in Boromir's place! If he thought her a whore, then surely the lack of regard was mutual: she thought him a bastard. As she realised her fingers were curled round the pommel of her sword, she had a moment of black humour. _The ring got it wrong. Now if it had offered me the chance to kill the bastard, rather than trying to make me believe Faramir would do it..._

But her wrath was stayed by the sound of voices raised in argument. As if the people inside had been able to read her mind, Denethor and the Grey Pilgrim were now arguing about what should have been done with Isildur's bane when it lay within Faramir's reach. She shivered as she listened to Denethor's vainglorious arrogance, his assurance that he could have held it safe within Minas Tirith. Any black humour she might have managed to find a moment earlier vanished. Instead, her mind went back to the tortured night of dreams laden with temptation, to her visions of restoring the glory of the Riddermark, to the fact that even Faramir had said he had felt its evil. Béma, Denethor was a fool if he couldn't see this. From what she could hear, it sounded as though the Grey Pilgrim shared her opinion - certainly as regarded Isildur's bane, and, she suspected, also of Denethor's judgement.

Then the argument shifted. Again she heard only fragments, but it seemed that Denethor thought Faramir had not done enough to strengthen the garrison at Osgiliath – though quite what else he could have done, Éowyn could not see, since he had already sent the greater part of the Ithilien Rangers to the western bank of the crossing. She heard Denethor, almost shouting: “It is there that the first blow will fall. They will need a stout captain...”

The implication was clear – his father did not believe that Faramir could be that captain. The voices died down again, and Éowyn could not make out the individual, words. But within minutes, the door finally opened, and Faramir emerged. He paused on the threshold, turned, and bowed to his father. Then he walked away across the antechamber, looking even paler and more exhausted than he had when they finally reached the Citadel after the flight from the Nazgûl.

Éowyn stepped from where she had been waiting, in a niche beside a statue of a warrior, long dead. Faramir looked at her.

“My father bids me rest. About the one sensible thing he has said to me this whole past hour.”

Éowyn looked at him, feeling almost awkward. “I suppose this time you will have to stay here...” She recalled their last stay in Minas Tirith, where they had both ended up at the town house belonging to Prince Imrahil, and Faramir had crept through the darkened house to join her in her bed.

“Yes, for my father bids us reconvene our meeting before first light tomorrow.” Faramir stretched out his hands and caught hers between them. “Frankly, I don't give a damn what my father thinks right now. Stay with me...” Then he turned, still holding her hand, and set off almost at a run through the highly arched antechamber to the council room.

Éowyn soon realised the palace was vast and rambling. Faramir led her along a twisting corridor and up a winding staircase, leaving her feeling almost giddy. She wasn't sure whether this stemmed from the absurdity of the adventure, like two randy teenagers evading their parents, or whether it was some sort of belated reaction, some recoil from horror to macabre laughter from their earlier desperate flight from the Nazgûl. Either way, when Faramir finally flung open a door into a large, airy chamber, she stumbled through it, pulling him into an embrace and giggling.

Faramir put his arms round her and kissed her with a kind of gentle thoroughness, more of a promise of things to come than of immediate passion. Then he held her at arms length.

“Wait here – I will go and organise food and some hot water to wash with.” He kissed her once more, this time on the brow, then strode to the door, giving her a grin before leaving.

Left alone, Éowyn began to explore the chamber. It had a high, window, three arches of stone, the central one taller and broader than the two flanking ones. The window, she discovered, looked over a courtyard garden, not unlike (and here she stifled a grin) the one at Prince Imrahil's house. To one side of the chamber was a bed – not, she thought, meant for two, but certainly not narrow, quite luxurious looking really. They would certainly both fit in it comfortably, if quite cosily. The floor had a richly woven rug in reds and browns. The room spoke of a quiet, understated luxury and wealth. Éowyn made a gentle huffing noise: somehow she always managed to forget in between visits to Minas Tirith that Faramir was anything other than a career soldier, a very gifted captain. But in fact, when she stopped to think about it, he was (for all his father did not bear the title “king”) equal in rank to her cousin.

Opposite the bed was a reading desk and chair, and against the wall next to it was a tall bookcase filled with books. She stepped closer. Most of the books were in Sindarin, a language she had only a sketchy knowledge of. But she could decipher enough to tell that there was a mixture – many books on history, quite a large collection of poetry. (The notion of capturing poetry and chaining it on vellum, imprisoning it between stiff boards bound in leather, still seemed strange to Éowyn. Surely poetry was meant to be recited aloud, sung to a hall full of people, not mused upon silently in one's head in solitude?) There were other books too – on military strategy, ballistics, horsemanship (again Eowyn smiled – how could one learn horsemanship from a book?) And also books on astronomy, and herb-lore, and natural philosophy... the list of Faramir's interests seemed endless, which, now Éowyn came to think about it, she supposed wasn't exactly a big surprise. It was just striking to see it all displayed in one place.

High on one of the shelves, rolled up, was a crocheted... what, exactly? She pulled it down and it unfurled within her hands. It seemed to be a baby blanket, old and worn, some corners frayed, but worked in a complex and delicate lacework pattern, quite obviously the fruits of considerable labour and love. Why had Faramir kept it, she wondered? Gently, she laid it over the end of a day couch which sat beneath the window, and continued her investigation. Then, tucked in the corner, she came across the strangest thing of all, a wooden pole some three foot or so long, with a cloth head stuffed with fabric or kapok or similar – a head in the shape of a horse's head. She had just raised it in her hands to get a closer look when the door opened behind her.

She turned and held the curious horse-on-a-pole out. “What on earth is this?”

Faramir smiled. “It's a hobby horse – a childhood toy. From when I was about three or four, I suppose. I used to gallop round the passages on it, pretending to be a knight errant, slaying dragons.”

Éowyn's brows drew together in puzzlement. “But surely at three or four you'd be riding a real pony?”

Faramir's smile turned into a ready laugh at his own expense. “And that, my love, is why your country far outstrips mine in terms of its cavalry. What other embarrassing secrets from my childhood have you discovered?” He sat down on the bed, looking at her, seemingly giving some kind of unspoken permission to carry on with her explorations.

“Well, I don't think I would call it embarrassing, for I think it probably means a great deal to you, but I wondered about this blanket.” She picked the crocheted piece from the couch and held it out. Faramir's expression became wistful.

“It is the shawl my mother made for me when she was pregnant. It is one of the things I have left of her.”

“How old were you when she died?”

“Only five. Old enough to remember the pain of her loss, not old enough to understand.”

“My parents died when I was eight – first my father in a raid, then my mother some months later.” Éowyn sat on the bed beside Faramir and put her arm round his waist, holding the shawl on her lap with her other hand. “It never leaves you, does it? The loss.”

Faramir rested his head on her shoulder. “No.” Then he turned to look at her, and his fingers gently touched the soft creamy folds of wool resting in her lap. “We've never talked of this...” His gaze softened. “But I can almost imagine you, sitting beside me, with a child of our own wrapped in that blanket.”

For a moment, Éowyn felt seized by a kind of giddy joy, her stomach turning a curious somersault. But then just as quickly it tied itself in a knot. She could see Faramir, his eyes fixed on her face as he traced the emotions flitting across her face one after another, her confusion. He reached up a hand to trace her cheek.

“I... I... How could we bring a child into the midst of a war? If we could, I would, but...” Her voice trailed off.

“You take herbs to stop it happening, don't you?” said Faramir, gently drawing her head to rest against his chest.

“Aye... I had not realised you knew.”

“Well, it would be somewhat unlikely after this amount of time for you not to have got with child without recourse to some sort of preventative method – unless of course, all my arrows are blunt.”

Éowyn snorted in disbelief, and Faramir chuckled at her reaction.

There was a knock at the door.

“Come,” said Faramir, and a servant entered, bearing a large steaming ewer and a bowl, which he placed on the low chest beside the bed.

“The meal will arrive soon, my lord. In about ten minutes, to give you time to wash,” he said, bowing, then leaving.

“Do you want first turn with the hot water?” asked Faramir.

“Oh yes... but what shall I wear? I don't want to put these dirty clothes back on.” Éowyn raised her arm and sniffed her armpit, then grimaced. Faramir got up from the bed and crossed to the clothes press beside the bookcase. He rummaged in it for a few moments, then produced a shirt and pair of breeches.

“Here – if you roll the legs up, and tie a cord round the waist, they should do.”

Eowyn stripped off her dirty garments with relief and sponged herself down with the hot water. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Faramir stretched out on the bed, watching with an admiring look. Pulling on the clothes, she turned and yanked at his ankle. 

“My turn to play the voyeur – get up and have a wash.”

Faramir grinned, and stood fore square, facing her. Slowly, watching her reaction, he unlaced his shirt and pulled it over his head, then slid his breeches over his slim hips, taking his small-clothes with them.

“You tease! Now you're just showing off,” Éowyn snorted. But her face gave away her interest: he could see her eyes taking in every detail of his body.

“Try to tell me you're not enjoying the view,” Faramir murmured, giving her a knowing, almost smug, glance.

“Your servant said they'd return with the food in ten minutes...”

“Plenty of time if we're quick.”

Éowyn reached out and plucked the sponge out of the basin, then threw it at the hard planes of his belly. “I'd rather have you clean and not smelling while we eat, then we can take our time afterwards.” Faramir faked a look of disappointment, but retrieved the sponge and set about scrubbing himself thoroughly. By the time the servants returned with the food, both of them were respectably dressed (or at least decently covered – Éowyn suspected that wearing a pair of her lover's old breeches and one of his shirts would not exactly be considered “respectable” in Gondor).

The food was extremely good – a pheasant pie, vegetable broth and some sort of hot rice pudding with stewed fruit. After the meal, Éowyn asked for directions to the garderobe. She returned a few minutes later to find Faramir had already stripped – clothes carelessly strewn around the room – and fallen into bed, where (to her disappointment) he lay on his belly, already fast asleep. Stifling the temptation to wake him up and remind him that she'd promised they could take their time after dinner, she too undressed and slid into the bed beside him. He didn't even twitch as she snuggled up against him.

~o~O~o~

The sky through the windows was still dark when the servant knocked at the door to rouse them. After a quick and meagre breakfast, Eowyn found herself once more pacing the flagstones outside the council chamber, hearing only odd snatches of conversation. Only one fragment really struck her, Denethor's voice demanding querulously “not if there is a captain here who still has the courage to do his lord's will.”

At long last, the door swung open, and Faramir strode out, his face etched with anger. Close behind him, Mirthrandir followed, with the halfling trotting at his heels, and behind them Imrahil. Imrahil shot Éowyn a look of profound sympathy. 

She found herself swept along the corridors and passage ways in Faramir's wake. Eventually, in the courtyard of the palace, Mithrandir forced Faramir to stop and face him.

“Do not throw your life away rashly or in bitterness,” the wizard said. “You will be needed here.”

Faramir simply shook his head. Mithrandir gave a half bow, then swept away, white robes swirling about him. The halfling followed close behind.

Faramir turned to face Éowyn. The anger faded from his face, to be replaced by a look of the most profound grief. His eyes glistened, and Éowyn could see him swallow, before he finally spoke.

“My father has ordered me to defend Osgiliath,” he said.

“No!” Éowyn cried. She took his hand and clung to it. “Why? Surely it is a vain cause.”

“I fear so too. I told my father that even if we held on at the price of one of our troops for every ten of theirs, still we would be overwhelmed. And with the odds as they are, the enemy can afford to throw whole regiments at us, while we can scarce afford a company.” Faramir looked at her. “The only thing that reconciles me to this desperate enterprise is the hope that it may not be entirely in vain – if I can but buy us time till your compatriots come...” His voice faded.

“The beacons have been lit? The red arrow sent?” Éowyn's voice was barely a whisper. Faramir nodded. He took her hand in both of his, then rested his forehead against hers.

“And if they do... Can you lead the remainder of your troops back, do you think?”

Faramir looked at her, his gaze level. He looked as if he was fighting to remain in control. “In all honesty... I do not expect to survive to make the attempt. My father has made it clear he expects me to defend Osgiliath at all costs, even to the death,” he said, quietly. “Death I do not fear, but losing you...”

Éowyn stared at him, horror struck. She found that she could not form any words at all.

“Remember that I loved you, loved you more than anything else in the whole world. And live through this, for my sake.” He pressed his lips to her brow. Then, quite abruptly, he released her hands, turned and was gone.


	16. Chapter 16

For a moment, Éowyn stood rooted to the spot. Then she shook herself, almost like a dog after a dunking in icy water, and started to hurry after Faramir. If he was going to ride out on some crazed mission, she was damned if he was going to do it alone. But a hand on her arm stopped her in her tracks. She half-turned and found Imrahil's grey eyes boring into hers.

“You are not to go. Faramir has already had that argument with his father, and lost it,” the prince said, his voice level.

“Damn his father to the wastes of Angband and back.” In a sudden rush of fury, Éowyn almost shouted at Imrahil. “I'm bloody well going, and that heartless bastard can't stop me.” She tugged against his grip, but was held fast.

Imrahil shook his head sadly. “No, hear me out. His father turned the issue into a straight choice between loyalty to Gondor or outright, public insubordination, asking in front of witnesses – all his chief counsellors – whether Faramir intended to undermine his father's authority in front of his troops at the very moment when Gondor faced a threat which could utterly destroy it. Denethor framed it in such a way that Faramir had no choice.”

Éowyn's shoulders slumped as she gave up the attempt to break free. She was hit by a wave of embarrassment and anger as she realised that tears were welling up in her eyes. She looked away, not wanting Imrahil to see her weakness, or not wanting to see him seeing it. His voice continued, “You may add to 'heartless' the words ruthless, manipulative, Machiavellian... and dangerously effective. But you should also remember that he has led our people through the most dangerous period they have faced since the Kinslaying – possibly an even more dangerous period. Our very existence hangs in the balance, and the odds are not in our favour. We have needed his ruthlessness, his singleness of purpose, and he has paid heavily for giving this to us – he has lost one son, stands on the brink of losing both. It is not that he does not care, more that he cannot allow himself to care, for the stakes are too high.”

~o~O~o~

The day stretched out interminably. For a while Éowyn waited in an agony of frustration in Imrahil's house. Merileth tried her best to distract Éowyn, but the latter's thoughts kept circling back to Faramir. She hated this forced inactivity, this passivity. It felt as though she was losing her mind. Eventually, rescue came from an unlikely quarter; the two younger of Imrahil's sons, Erchirion and Amrothos, suggested she help them in the stables, seeing to the Dol Amroth cavalry horses.

“We shall be needed ere this mess is over and done with,” said Amrothos, the younger of the two.

Erchirion, his elder by a mere year or so, uncannily like Faramir in appearance, but carefree in his youth, and less thoughtful in demeanour, gave Éowyn a comradely slap on the back. “Don't you worry. Faramir has an uncanny knack of coming through the worst circumstances imaginable. Did you know the lucky bastard managed to swim most of the way across Anduin in his chain mail? When they destroyed the bridge.”

“I was there,” said Éowyn shortly. Her mind flitted back to the night that had followed, when she had held him tight against her to warm him up, then held him tighter still when he had warmed up. She didn't know whether to laugh at the memory or cry. Clenching her jaw, she followed the two young men to the stables.

The horses were not bad, as Gondorian nags went. Imrahil obviously had a good eye for horse flesh. Éowyn set to with a will, shovelling manure into the barrow and taking load after load to the midden, then hauling bales of fresh straw down from the loft until her arms and shoulders ached. She had hoped that physical pain would drown out the mental anguish, but it seemed as though her hopes were in vain.

They ate a late supper. Just before they retired for the night, Imrahil appeared briefly, seemingly only to make his excuses to Merileth.

“Denethor calls me back for a council of war, my lady,” he said, raising her hand to his lips. “I shall not return until late, possibly after midnight. Do not wait for me.” He cast an anxious sidelong glance at Éowyn, before continuing, “We have received word from Osgiliath. They are besieged: a host from Minas Morgul, supplemented by several regiments of Southrons from the Haradwaith.”

And so, despite her physical exhaustion, Éowyn retired to bed with her mind in turmoil. She lay staring at the ceiling, occasionally snatching a fitful hour of sleep only to wake again, and eventually was reduced to waiting gritty eyed for a dawn which never came. She rose as soon as the noises of a wakening household gave her an excuse to do so. The next day was even worse than the one before. The clouds hung dark above the plains, shrouding the mountain above the city in a dark gloom. Éowyn was running out of make-work, but the stables kept her active. She thought wryly at one point that at least the horses' bowels were unaffected by the gathering terror; there was no shortage of shit for her to shovel. 

Erchirion and Amrothos provided a small measure of distraction. They were, Éowyn reflected, quite different in character. Erchirion, though the older of the two, still came across as young and daft. He coped with the tension by crude humour – trying to lob lumps of dung down the back of his brother's tunic while the latter was looking the other way. Amrothos also took refuge in humour, but his was a black, dour humour, though in the circumstances, all the funnier for it. Éowyn found herself more drawn to Amrothos. The obvious intelligence beneath the dark wit reminded her in a good way of Faramir. In contrast, Erchirion's physical similarity to the man she loved, coupled with his wildly different temperament, she found disturbing in the extreme.

After lunch she found herself without any chores left. Eventually, exhausted by hard labour and lack of sleep the previous night, she slumped exhausted into a heap of hay in the loft above the stables and slept for several hours.

 

Late afternoon, the news she had been dreading came. The Causeway Forts had fallen. Wains bearing the wounded were headed for the city. The messengers reported that Faramir was apparently overseeing the rearguard of the retreat. _Bloody typical. It's the sodding river all over again, when he almost drowned himself going back to save one of his men._

She didn't even try to sleep that night, but instead stood on the walls looking out over the plains. Red lights flickered in the distance. The soldiers around her explained the significance – the enemy was blasting holes in the outer wall, the Rammas Echor. 

About the second hour after midnight, Éowyn suddenly started as someone appeared at her elbow. It was Amrothos, with a steaming tankard.

“Camomile tea,” he said, thrusting it at her. “Help you sleep.”

“I can't sleep...”

“You should at least try. At first light, we're going to ready the cavalry at the gate. Father's been up late into the night talking strategy with the Steward and his Counsellors. My uncle's plan – and you can't fault him on his grasp on things military – is that the rearguard of the retreat is the bit most in danger of becoming a rout, so he intends to hold the cavalry back till the last minute, then send us through the outer gate to protect the last of the retreat. I was assuming you'd want to ride with us, and if you're going to do that, you need to sleep. I'm buggered if I'm having my flank protected by someone who's in danger of falling out the saddle because they're knackered.”

“And what does Denethor think of including me in your cavalry?” Éowyn couldn't keep the note of bitterness out of her voice.

“Father didn't ask him. His words to me were 'Part of a leader's job is to delegate. I don't need to know the exact disposition of troops down to the identity of the last stablehand.' He gave me one of _those_ looks when he said it.”

Éowyn gave a dark half-smile at these words.

“So drink the bloody tea and get some rest, woman,” Amrothos growled, shoving the tankard into her hands and disappearing back into the shadows.

~o~O~o~

It was late morning by the time Amrothos appeared to rouse Éowyn, not that there was any sunlight, just an overwhelming grey gloom.

“Why did you let me sleep so late?”

“Don't worry, you haven't missed anything. Groups of troops coming in, in various states of chaos, but no sign yet of the enemy's frontlines, so I'm guessing we're nowhere near the rearguard yet. Of course we don't know how many fell trying to defend Osgiliath, but the troops so far amount to less than a quarter of the garrison and its reinforcements, so I hope there's a lot more to come.”

Amrothos waited outside the bedchamber while Éowyn dressed, then came back in to help her buckle on her armour. She didn't wait for the servants to bring breakfast, just grabbed a bag of bread rolls from the kitchen, and together they made their way back onto the walls, this time the outermost walls looking over the main gatehouse to the Pelennor. The young Gondorian's summary of events had been correct; scattered groups of troops made their way across the plain, some in total disarray, others holding to some rough semblance of discipline, others still bearing makeshift stretchers with wounded comrades.

Towards the late afternoon, they caught distant glimpses of a troop holding tight order as it retreated.

“A castar to a grain of rice that's Faramir,” said Amrothos. “He can hold it together when everyone around him is panicking. Come on, we need to be ready by the gate.” Amrothos led the way down the steps, calling over his shoulder “And pull your visor down. Father isn't officially supposed to know you're with us...”

They made their way to the grooms holding their horses in the courtyard behind the great gate. Erchirion was already there, beside his chestnut charger. Éowyn took the reins and stood ready, holding Windfola's head. She was glad of the visor; she entertained a slightly vain hope no-one would see how scared she was. From over her shoulder she heard Amrothos' voice.

“Got the yips? Me too. It'll be find once we're out of these gates and in the thick of it.”

“Do you remember that epic poem we had to learn as kids? The really lame one where the hero was stupidly brave all the bloody time,” Erchirion said.

“Ah yes, truly a masterpiece of the poet's art: _With a song in his heart and might in his arm/ He raised his great horn to sound the alarm...,_ ” intoned Amrothos. 

“I prefer my version of it,” said Erchirion, “He tripped o'er his feet and bought the damn farm.”

Despite her black mood, Éowyn laughed. Amrothos continued, “It was a really dreadful poem. Kept going on about how his thoughts were so filled with heroism and love of his country that he had no room in his head for doubt or fear. I don't know about you, but first time I rode into battle, my only thought was 'Oh shit!'”

And then Imrahil gave the signal to mount. The cavalry drew together in close order, knee brushing knee. Then with the clank of the chains in the gatehouse above, the great gates opened. At a trot, the troop rode out onto the plain, fanning out into a long line the better to charge their enemy. From his position on the flank, the Prince of Dol Amroth gave the signal to advance, and the cavalry began to trot towards the advancing enemy.

Sandwiched between the two lines was a lone troop of men, still marching in file under control, as a lone horseman circled them. Éowyn knew instantly who it was. Around her, the cavalry upped their pace to a canter. And at that very moment, as Windfola's stride lengthened beneath her, she saw Haradrim cavalry bear down on the troop of footsoldiers from the side. At the same instant, an unearthly shriek cut the air, and one of the dark monsters swooped from the sky, its rider heading straight for Faramir.

It was all Éowyn could do not to spur Windfola to a gallop, to close the distance to Faramir as fast as she could. But some part of her brain was still working. To break ranks, to head for him, this would only add to the chaos, not help. Another part was screaming at her to ride, ride to ruin and destruction. But the Valar were merciful; just as the urge to gallop became unbearable, Imrahil signalled the full charge.

But then her worst nightmare unfolded before her waking eyes. A dart – whether from the fell riders of the air or the troops on the ground, she could not tell – flew through the air. As though time had slowed to a standstill, she watched as it pierced Faramir's side and he tumbled from his horse. She heard her own scream rend the air, almost as if she was listening to another. Then Faramir's body was engulfed by the advancing hordes.


	17. Chapter 17

With the force of waves meeting the shore, the cavalry crashed into the line of enemy forces, hewing orcs and men from their path. They succeeded in beating back the enemy and buying themselves a brief respite. In desperation, Éowyn wheeled Windfola, scanning the ground around her, before finally catching sight of Faramir's body, lying pinned beneath the corpse of a Southron. She urged her horse forwards, then swung herself from the saddle. With a cry, she threw herself to her knees beside him, heaving the bloodied body from on top of him. For a moment Faramir's eyes fluttered open.

“Éowyn... My love...” Then he struggled as if to sit up.

“Hush, lie still. We'll get you onto a horse.”

“It's not safe for you to be here.”

“Bugger safety... You're all that matters.”

He let his head fall back onto the ground, exhausted. Eyes closing once more, he just managed a murmur before lapsing into unconsciousness. “I'm sorry. I didn't live long enough to fight by your side to the last.”

Éowyn knelt in the mud by Faramir's side, almost paralysed by pain and loss. She stared at his face – the familiar lines she knew so well, the long lashes across his cheeks. His chest rose and fell very slightly – he was not gone yet. But a fear the like of which she had never known gripped her; surely it could only be a matter of time. She looked at the fletches of the dart which protruded from the weak spot in his armour. There must be some fell poison at work, to act so quickly. She groped for his hand – it was cold as ice, clammy to the touch. Her vision blurred as her eyes filled with tears. Angrily, she wiped them away with the back of her other hand. 

She barely registered Amrothos and Erchirion's arrival. Together, they lifted Faramir onto Imrahil's horse, where the Prince cradled him in his arms. As if in a dream, Éowyn stood up. She felt her guts clench as she took in the way Faramir lay limp in Imrahil's embrace, like a rag doll. With stumbling feet she made it back to where Windfola stood, clutching his reins like a lifeline. Remounting, the cavalry rode back across the plains. 

There was a huge clamour behind them, from the lines of advancing enemy, but it seemed to come to Éowyn's ears as if under water, muffled, filtered. She knew on some level that her comrades felt immense urgency, knew herself to be riding fast, but whatever emotions – fear, determination, duty – drove them, she did not feel. Instead, she felt numbed to the core. The world was greys and browns, muted noises, dulled emotions, strangely fragmented. It made no sense, or no sense beyond the immediate act of holding to her horse and staying with the others. They slowed as they neared the great gate, then cantered in file beneath the immense stone arch. With a clang, the gate slammed shut behind them.

Denethor stood in the courtyard, his armour glinting beneath his cloak, his back ramrod straight. His immaculately neat white hair and beard were at odds with his ravaged demeanour. 

“Oh, my son, my son, Faramir, my son.” His voice was on the verge of breaking with pain. Gently, his servants lifted Faramir down from Imrahil's grasp and laid him on a stretcher. “Bear him up to the White Tower.”

Éowyn leapt down from Windfola's back and hastened towards him, but Denethor looked straight through her as if she was not there, turning his attention instead to the Prince of Dol Amroth.

“Keep her away from me,” he said sharply, before adding, “Your thanks, brother-by-marriage, for returning my son to me.” Tears glinting in his eyes, he turned to follow his men up the street to the Citadel.

~o~O~o~

Amrothos felt completely out of his depth. This was the sort of thing Faramir was good at, comforting his troops in time of loss. So there was a certain irony, the young prince reflected, in finding himself the one comforting the shieldmaiden because Faramir himself had been lost, well as good as, at any rate. Usually Amrothos got through situations like this by searching out the gallows humour and maintaining an air of detachment, but this time he couldn't.

Slightly awkwardly, he put his arm round her shoulders. There was an incongruity in embracing his cousin's lover, an even greater incongruity in embracing a woman in armour. But he didn't really get much time to reflect on it; she broke down in tears. Not delicate, ladylike tears, but great, gulping, snotty tears. He hadn't the first idea what to do, but once the initial storm had passed and all that was left were dry, racking tears which shook her slender frame, he steered her, stumbling, up the hill to the town house. 

Somehow, he managed to give an almost coherent account of events to his mother, who, mercifully, swept Éowyn up into her own arms, while simultaneously issuing orders to maids, housekeeper and cook. Princess Merileth hustled Éowyn into a bedchamber, and, with the aid of one of the maidservants, helped remove her armour, sponge the worst of the mire from the battlefield from her, and get her into a warm nightgown and robe just as the housekeeper came in with steaming soup and freshly baked rolls. Éowyn managed all of two mouthfuls before bolting to the garderobe. Merileth heard the sound of vomiting, followed by dry retching.

There was a cautious knock at the door, and Merileth opened it to reveal Amrothos.

He sounded almost apologetic. “I have to go now, mother. We must man every stretch of the wall to repel siege engines, and have the cavalry ready to issue forth should the Rohirrim arrive to come to our aid.”

Somehow that penetrated the haze that had filled Éowyn's brain; with a guilty start, she stood up.

“My people will come. They will uphold the oath of Eorl, as I promised the Steward. And in the mean time, I will do my duty and help you on the walls.”

“No, rest a while longer, Éowyn...” Amrothos paused for a moment, then rested his hand on her shoulder. “Cousin... You are but newly back from the fray, you must compose yourself and rest.”

Éowyn started at the appellation, the ghost of an almost-smile passing for a fleeting instant. “No, I cannot rest, rest will not come to me, I know that.”

“Not to your mind, maybe, but at least allow your frayed muscles, your sinews, a chance to knit together. And for the Valar's sake, woman, eat.” Amrothos felt slightly desperate in his attempts to dissuade her. If he were to be entirely honest, he would have said straight out that in her current state, she'd be neither use nor ornament. But one look at her face told him that now was not the time for honesty. He tried a new tack.

“Rest for the space of a candle mark, then go and join the crews of men putting out fires. The enemy are using ballistas to send flaming tar barrels over the walls.”

Princess Merileth came softly behind Éowyn and took her hand. “My son is right. Rest at least briefly. You will offer better service for it.” She turned to Amrothos, who took her hand and kissed it. “Go safely my son. May Elbereth protect you, and Tulkas lend strength to your arm.”

Amrothos bowed to both of them, and left, striding down the corridor. _An arrow dodged... I love her dearly but I don't want to be watching out for her up on the walls_. He realised he felt a huge brotherly concern for the shieldmaiden, wanted her to be safe, wanted her to rest. Of course, she wouldn't be able to. Not with his cousin... Well the news hadn't sounded good. Blast it all to Morgoth's frozen wastes. His cousin deserved some happiness, if ever any man did, and had finally found it, and now it was all snatched away. He vaguely remembered Boromir joking around about his brother having the most amazing luck, for he certainly hadn't won the heart of his lady through any practised, suave onslaught of charm. Just been in the right place at the right time. _Valar be damned..._ Both Boromir and now Faramir. The last of the house of Hurin. Dark days indeed. 

Lost in dark thoughts he made his way down the streets to the outer walls. A few quick enquiries directed him to his brother Erchirion's platoon of Swan Knights. The scene on the ramparts was chaos. The remainder of the Ithilien Rangers, those who had survived the rout at Osgiliath were raining arrows down upon the enemy, but the orcs and Southrons advanced in waves, seemingly unstoppable. The Swan Knights were mostly engaged in trying to push back the siege ladders being raised against the walls. 

“You can shoot,” his brother said. “Take that bow from the poor devil over there and take up his station.” Nodding, Amrothos stepped over to the body of a Ranger, pierced by an orc arrow, and took the bow from the man's dead hands. He took up station beside another Ranger.

“Sir,” the man muttered. 

“No, stand easy… You just concentrate on your shooting.” As Amrothos reached for more arrows, he took a sidelong glance at the man next to him. “You were on the retreat from Osgiliath, were you not?” Amrothos paused, searching his memory. He had met this man before in Faramir's company. “Mablung, isn't it?”

“Yes sir.” The man nodded curtly, then nocked an arrow to the string, took careful aim and loosed it. Below him, one of a group of Southrons carrying a siege ladder crumpled to the ground.

Amrothos and Mablung shot in silence for several minutes, until all their arrows were spent. As they turned to fetch more, and retrieve as many enemy arrows as they could, Mablung spoke again, somewhat hesitantly.

“Begging your pardon sir, have you any news of Captain Faramir, Sir?”

Amrothos paused in reaching out for an arrow lying on the stones beneath. “Lying ill within his father's palace. I have no recent news, but fear the worst.”

A look of pain passed the man's face, then he started to speak, paused, then shut his mouth again, colour rising in his cheeks. He stopped in his search for arrows, seemingly overcome with emotion. The prince felt his patience stretching thin.

“Out with it, man,” said Amrothos, “We haven't got all day.”

“His... lady... Sir, does she know?”

“Aye, she does.”

The ranger passed his hand across his eyes. “She'll be sore hurt by the news.”

“Yes,” said the Prince, shortly. Then he softened slightly – after all, here, it seemed, was another who felt the same brotherly concern towards the Rohir lass, as Boromir had always called her. “Did you lose many of your company?”

He turned back to the ramparts, and took aim once more, armed with his fresh stock of arrows. Mablung copied him, but managed to reply while nocking another arrow.

“Far too many, Sir. It was a fool's errand, if that isn't criticising my betters.”

Amrothos grunted in disdain. “You're wrong, it wasn't a fool's errand, and that's not me leaping to the defence of your betters. It bought us time to shore up the defence. The city might have fallen by now if it hadn't been for your efforts.”

“That's what Damrod – Captain Faramir's 2IC – said. 'Just buy them some time, and take as many of the bastards with us as we can...' He went down swinging, and he did it, took a load of 'em with him. Realised they were using that black fire they can crack walls with, and when he saw there was no escape, grabbed the pot it was in off the lead orc, and stuffed it hard up against the supporting pillars – brought the whole thing down on top of half a troop of the buggers. And himself of course... Sorry, Sir, I'm rambling on something shocking.”

Amrothos couldn't help a grim smile. “No, there's no shame in remembering a brave comrade. But we need to concentrate on the task in hand. There'll be time enough after this is over to remember our fallen comrades as they should be honoured.” Even as he uttered the words, he was not sure if they were true.

 

_~o~O~o~_

She had finally escaped the well-meaning web that was Merileth's kindness, and here she was, in the midst of hell.

Éowyn slumped against the wall with exhaustion. She had passed bucket after bucket from hand to hand, playing her part in one of the chains of men winding from water tanks through the streets. Theirs had been a desperate fight, trying to put out the burning houses. First there had been the hail of missiles which came arcing over the battlements, bursting into flames on impact. Then there had been the unimaginable horror of the barrage of severed heads. Men wept openly as the maimed and crushed heads of their comrades, their friends, their brothers-in-arms, pitched into the streets. Éowyn feared that she would never rid her mind of those images.

Now, however, there came a more excruciating torture. She couldn't remember now where she first heard the rumour – in the chain of men passing buckets, among the men cowering from the barrage beneath a high wall, from the stretcher bearers carrying the wounded. But the words – there was no escaping the words. “The Lord Faramir lies consumed by fever”, “The Lord Faramir is dying.” And soon, the whispered words seemed to be everywhere. The men who spoke them had tears in their eyes. Éowyn, feeling as if her guts had been torn out, found she could not cry. The enormity was too great.

And then the Nazgûl came, swooping down over the heads of the men who struggled to hold the first circle of the city. Their fell cries rent the air, and men cowered and shrank into doorways and under rubble-strewn archways to escape them. But such was Éowyn's despair that while the men around her were frozen with terror, she felt nothing, only a heavy numbness in her heart.

Then, dimly through the haze of bitter loss, the sound of a trumpet penetrated. The retreat. There was no chance of holding the outermost circle of the city. And Éowyn's duty no longer held her there. As if her feet were winged, she flew through the streets of the city, upwards towards the White Tower. Her whole being was consumed by the need to be beside him, to see his face one last time before he died.

Her quest turned out to be a fool's errand. The guards would not grant her entry.

As the great door slammed in her face, a memory hit her with the force of a physical blow. Faramir, holding her in his arms, whispering, “Live or die, I will face what is to come by your side. And if death is our fate, we will come before Mandos together, hand in hand.”

She almost crumpled to the floor. His father was going to deny her even this comfort. Faramir was to go to his long rest, and she was left here, on this earth, tortured and torn by war, all things of beauty blasted into twisted, tortured shadows of themselves by the enemy. Left to live in this ruinous devastation, left to live alone without him.

Placing her palm flat on the stone wall beside the door, she held herself upright. No, she would not. She would follow him. They might not come before Mandos hand in hand, but she would follow him there, as Luthien had followed Beren. His uncle was preparing his cavalry for a last defence of the gates. She could ride out with the Swan Knights and fall defending Faramir's city. She turned and set off down the street.


	18. Chapter 18

Amrothos looked at the knights milling around within the inner courtyard. In the flickering light of the torches, he could see Éowyn's eyes glittering beneath her helm. Her face, before she had donned her helmet, had been set in a rigid mask. Her earlier grief had been buried, frozen, cast in stone, and now all that remained was a bitter determination which frightened him. The Valar alone knew what it would do to the enemy.

He was pretty sure that earlier, as they milled around, putting tack on their horses, his father had spotted Éowyn. He was equally sure that his father had turned a blind eye. There was a knowing look which he had seen before, in happier times, when his father and mother had exchanged a glance. Then, Imrahil had said to his cousin that the hour was very late, and had enquired whether he would like a guest room prepared within the Dol Amroth town house, rather than returning through the cold to the Steward's Palace. Amrothos suspected his parents of knowing full well that the guest room would not be slept in, but did not care so long as lip service was paid to the proprieties. His father was capable of turning a blind eye to quite a lot when it suited him, or when the whim took him. Alas that the circumstances now were so very different.

He heard Erchirion address their father.

“Sir, when do we ride out?”

“We wait for dawn.” Imrahil's face was grim and drawn. Amrothos shifted uncomfortably, keeping his back ramrod straight. There was precious little to be gained from the desperate sortie, unless some sort of miracle were to occur. The best that could be hoped for was a swift and honourable death, rather than a long, lingering enslavement. Unbidden, the memory flitted across his mind of his father and mother talking in the small hours of the morning, murmuring in an undertone as they discussed which sections of the city wall near their house were sufficiently high that “there was no risk of leaving the job half-done.” He swallowed. Surely riding out to battle wielding a sword took less courage than cold-bloodedly taking that fateful step into the void.

Amrothos held tight to his mount's bridle, stroking his neck gently. There was a rising sense of tension, like a tightly coiled spring, among the men, and the horses could feel it. They were getting restless and skittish. And the oppressive, inescapable darkness was getting to him. The low clouds were lit from beneath by the dull dirty glow of red fires out on the battlefield beyond the walls. It seemed that even the air itself conspired with the enemy against them.

But then, just as Amrothos' mood seem to hit its lowest ebb, he felt a slight breeze, a freshening of the wind as it shifted round to the west, bringing with it the salt tang of the sea. And at the same time the clouds seemed to lift just fractionally, allowing the feeble grey light of dawn to creep beneath them.

Then, suddenly, cleaving the foetid air of the battlefield, there came the sound of horns being blown – a great baying of horns. At once a murmur of voices rose round the courtyard: “The Rohirrim are come”; “The men of the North”; “Help has come.”

“Mount up!” Imrahil's commanding voice rang out across the courtyard. Amrothos put his foot into the stirrup and swung himself into the saddle. From his new vantage point, he could see beyond the cavalry to the massed ranks of infantry, pikes and halberds at the ready, filling the streets behind. The city guards pulled open the gates and the host started to advance into the lowering, smoke-filled chaos of the battlefield beyond.

Amrothos felt the familiar sensation of his insides turning to liquid. Jaw clenched, he urged his horse on. He knew that at the first parry with the enemy the feeling would go, and he would become absorbed in the moment. _By the Valar, I don't blame any man for crapping himself at a moment like this._ His lips curled into a grim smile behind his visor. Around him, the horses and their riders started to move forwards.

~o~O~o~

Exhaustion was setting in. Amrothos felt as though his arm muscles were on fire. His body sagged in the saddle. But as yet he had been lucky, and had taken no injury. For much of the battle, he had been aware of the shieldmaiden somewhere to his left, fighting with a cold, ruthless fury. Boromir and Faramir's accounts had been right – her technique was impeccable, her speed and reactions amazing, more than compensating for her lesser strength. But now she had been swept away by the tide of fighting surging around them.

There was a slight lull in the battle around him, and he glanced across the field, looking for her, for his brothers, for his father. Then his eye lit upon her, on a slight knoll. He froze.

She stood, sword raised, facing the crumpled body of one of the fell beasts of the air. At her feet lay the body of a horse – a pale grey, and beneath the horse a man lay trapped. Not any man. Amrothos realised with a start that it was the King of the Rohirrim. Then, to his horror, as he watched, from beneath the wreckage of the beast, a black form emerged, so black it seemed to swallow up the daylight around it. Slowly, it rose, until it towered above Éowyn. He saw her sword waver, but she stood firm before it.

He started to urge his horse forwards, but it skittered anxiously beneath him, resisting his attempts to force it to move. The animal had more sense than its master, he thought grimly. No creature in its right mind would want to get close to that evil being. But Éowyn needed him. Getting the better of the horse's skittishness, he managed to get it to take a few reluctant steps. As he watched, he could see some sort of exchange of words, but though he could see Éowyn's lips move, the clamour of the battlefield drowned her words. Then, for some unaccountable reason, she reached up and took off her helm, casting it to one side, gold hair cascading over her shoulders like some rare and beautiful treasure in the midst of the gore and horror around. 

Much good the gesture did her. Amrothos watched, powerless, as the creature of death raise his great mace and bring it hurtling down upon Éowyn's shield. She staggered and almost fell, taking a few paces backwards. Her shield had shattered into pieces; her arm now dangled useless at her side. He could see the look of agony on her face, then with a supreme effort she seemed to lock her jaw, and draw herself back upright. 

Once more she spoke, seemingly taunting the black figure. Again, the figure stepped towards her, raising his mace, then seemed to stagger, losing his balance. As he pitched forwards, Éowyn raised her sword and drove it with all her strength between the Nazgûl's mantle and helm. There was an unearthly shriek, then, as if the body of the Nazgûl had evaporated into a dark smoke, the dark cloak fluttered to the ground and the empty helm clanged to the ground, rolling across the earth. But it seemed that the dark vapours had leached the life from her; Éowyn crumpled and fell.

Amrothos realised the yell which rent the air had come from him. Spurring his horse hard, he forced it forward to the knoll. He sprang down and dropped to his knees in the mud beside the fallen Rohir. Trembling slightly, he raised her hand in his own.

Suddenly he found himself surrounded by a group of knights on horseback. He looked up to see a fell warrior staring down at him, blond hair flowing from beneath his helm, eyes glittering through the slits in his helm. Then the man called out Éowyn's name. His words were in another language, but it was clear that the lament was bitter and anguished. Then he seemed to call his men of arms around him. He gave a great cry – Amrothos thought he recognised a word: “Death!” Then the rider spurred his huge war horse into a gallop. Amrothos watched as the riders swept across the battlefield, swords swinging, cleaving all foes in their path. There was a blood lust, a battle madness, a red mist about them that scared him, even though he was on the same side.

Amrothos sat in the mud, feeling stunned. This part of the field was now strangely quiet. The riders had hewn down the orcs; their corpses lay several deep, with a few men, both friends and foe, scattered among them. Éowyn's body lay in the mud. Her blonde hair flowed across the ground, incongruously beautiful amidst such destruction. He still could not work out why she had taken off her helm early in the fight; it lay on the ground a few handspans away. Next closest was the body of her King, pinned beneath his horse, then a little further away still a strange, small man, little more than a child in size. Amrothos realised it was another of the halflings – one had arrived with the wizard Mithrandir a few days earlier, and had been sworn into his uncle's service. Gathering his wits, the young prince scrambled to his feet and looked around for comrades to help him. He was damned if he was going to leave Éowyn's body on the battlefield for the circling crows to peck. Suddenly he felt almost relieved in the knowledge that Faramir was beyond the touch of grief.

With a sudden burst of annoyance, he realised he no longer had his horse – the animal, scared by the body of the fell beast, and still sensing the dark miasma of the Nazgûl even after its death, had bolted. What the hell was he to do? Scanning the surroundings, he spotted a small group of infantry men, pikes shouldered, marching back towards the city to regroup, and called to them. Somewhat reluctantly they came over. With the aid of some spears and cloaks, they fashioned together three stretchers and loaded the lady, her king and the halfling onto them. Amrothos took one of the poles himself, helping to bear Eowyn's body. They set off upon their slow trudge back through the dirt and chaos. Boots, hooves, siege engines – all had churned the once rich earth of the Pelennor into a nightmarish hell of slippery mud. 

They were within a couple of hundred yards of the shattered remains of the city gate when a familiar voice hailed them.

“Amrothos, my son.” His father's charger clattered to a halt beside him. Imrahil swung himself down from the saddle and strode over to the makeshift stretchers. “Éowyn! Alas. As a niece she was to me, a woman as brave as she was beautiful. Who are the others?”

“The King of Rohan, and his squire, another of the strange halfling-folk,” Amrothos replied.

Imrahil held his hand to his breast for a brief moment, almost as if offering a benediction. Then he stooped to kiss Éowyn's brow. Abruptly he straightened, then held his burnished vambrace to her lips. A faint mist condensed on the cold steel.

“She lives! Make haste with your burden, my son, and carry her to the Houses of Healing!”


	19. Chapter 19

Amrothos straightened slightly from the slouch he had adopted on the bench where he rested. A group of men entered the hallway. The warden of the houses led the way, followed by his father and the tall man he had recently discovered was the heir of Elendil. Amrothos struggled for a moment not to stare, then decided, to hell with it, if ever an occasion justified a good stare, this was surely it.

The man was tall, though not excessively so, with dark hair. He had an unmistakable air of command, and something else, something Amrothos couldn't quite pin down. He didn't look kingly; in fact he looked like he'd been dragged through a hedge backwards. Or, more accurately, just come off a battlefield. But then all of them, even Amrothos' father, were looking more than a bit the worse for wear. But there was still that 'something'. The northerner had the unmistakable look of one of the Dunedain. At first glance he seemed younger than Prince Imrahil, but his eyes carried a weight of wisdom which hinted at a far greater age than his face, that of a man in the prime of life, suggested. There were a few silver hairs at his temples, but for the most part his hair was still jet black, middling in length. He was talking earnestly to the Warden, who answered his queries quietly but authoritatively. 

“In my judgement, the nearest to death is the Lady Éowyn, who slew the wraith. She is stricken with the black breath, and it seems she has little defence against it, for those who saw her ride onto the battlefield said she did so in a fey mood, knowingly riding to her death. Though why she had been brought to such despair, I know not.” _I could hazard a guess_ , thought Amrothos, but no-one asked for his council, in fact it seemed that no-one, not even his father, noticed him sitting there.

At that moment, the Warden's assistant, Goodwife Ioreth, came bustling up to the group, accompanied by Gandalf. Her customary talkativeness, which Amrothos remembered only too well from a month or so earlier (when he had had to have a dislocated shoulder put back into place) seemed undimmed by the august company, though she was a shade more deferential than normal.

“Sire, I have brought the herb you asked for. Kingsfoil, as fresh as I could find...”

“Thank you, good lady,” said the man who would be king. He took the leather pouch and nodded to the warden, who gestured with his arm that they should follow him. The party passed through the archway at the end of the hall and disappeared from Amrothos' sight.

~o~O~o~

The Warden led Aragorn down the narrow passage to a wooden door and opened it. There, lying on a narrow bed, deathly pale, was a woman, golden hair flowing across the pillow like water.

Aragorn gestured to the Warden's assistant. The healer poured hot water from the silver ewer into a basin, then brought the basin to Aragorn. Carefully, he crushed a small quantity of the athelas and added it to the water, letting the fumes fill the room with a sharp, wild, invigorating scent. He soaked a small sponge in the water, and carefully moistened Éowyn's lips.

He glanced across at the Warden. “I must enter the world of her dreams and call her back,” he said. “For this, I need silence, lest the bond between my mind and hers be sundered. For then she might be lost to us forever.” He took her hands and closed his eyes, letting his thoughts flow within his veins and down into his fingers, where they pressed the pulse point on her wrists. With a slight tremor, he let his mind ebb and flow in time with her heart beat, before letting his thoughts drift into her blood.

Despair... utter despair. Aragorn was almost brought to breaking point by the bleak desolation within her. As best he could he whispered words of hope, of comfort, mind to mind. _But he is gone, lost to me.._. The answer came to him. Then a flood of images swept over him, of a young man with dark hair and grey eyes, his gaze lit with wisdom and compassion, his face alight with a gentle smile filled with love. Next, she showed him the man, brave and strong, on a bridge before the fearsome wraiths. Then that same man, pulling his comrade from the icy water. And finally a wooden door, high and imposing, slammed in her face. _He would not let me see him even as he lay dying. What was there left for me but death upon the battlefield?_

Aragorn's grip on her hands tightened. How could he heal in the face of such despair? Then, as his mind surged to and fro on the tide of her blood, he became aware of another rhythm, another dance. For a moment, his eyes flickered open. Then he released her hands, and moved to place his palm upon her belly, resting upon cool linen sheets. There... there on the soft curve below her navel. He felt it through the thin layers of fabric – another heart beating, a new life flickering within her. Taking her hands within his again, he spoke urgently, mind to mind. _I cannot bring back the dead – but he is not lost to you. His child moves within you. Come back to us, come back for the love of him and for the love of the child you carry._ For several heartbeats, Aragorn held his breath. Then slowly he sensed a lessening of the despair, as though the sun was burning through the mist of a cold winter's day, bringing just a hint of warmth, enough to remind the soul that winter does not endure forever, and that one day spring must come. And then, stronger still, a sense of courage, of steely determination to protect and nurture the child she had not known she carried. The steel was stronger than the despair, and would carry her through the long winter of her grief until the spring thaw.

Cautiously, he opened his eyes and looked at the woman's face. At last there was a hint of some colour returning, and he saw her eyelashes flutter slightly as if she moved from deep unconsciousness to something more akin to sleep.

Feeling drained and exhausted, Aragorn turned to the Warden. “Who would you judge to be the next most urgent case?”

“The Lord Faramir, my liege.” 

Aragorn gave the old man an interrogative look. As he led the way down the passage, the Warden spoke.

“He too suffers from the black breath, though for some reason has fought against that. Some mental strength, or perhaps hope, kept him from succumbing. But he was also pierced by a poisoned arrow and lies in a high fever.” He paused and Aragorn sensed there was more to the tale. The old man evaded his gaze, staring at the floor. Then, with a sudden flash, Aragorn remembered Gandalf's hurried words about the death of Denethor. Almost the same instant, Aragorn's mind supplied a vision: that of two high, carved doors slamming shut. Thus, when the Warden opened the door to the next room, he was not surprised to see, lying upon the bed, the young man whose face haunted the Lady Éowyn's dreams. _He is not lost to you_ : suddenly his thoughts a few moments earlier seemed prophetic. Buoyed by a sudden hope which lifted the exhaustion he felt, he stepped within the chamber.

Once again, Aragorn crushed yet more of the precious athelas and crumbled it into the warm water. Carefully, he held the bowl next to the younger man's face, and watched the rise and fall of his chest as he breathed in the fragrant steam. Then, wetting a cloth, he sponged the young man's lips, before carefully letting some of the liquid drip into his slightly open mouth. He took the man's hands in his own. Shutting his eyes, he let his mind lose its grip on the real world around him. Cautiously, leaving a silver thread of thought behind him to anchor himself, he set off for the second time on the perilous journey into the mind of another, into the dream world.

The topmost layer of his mind was dark, swirling fear. The Nazgûl still soared above his head, its darts unleashed towards him, the frozen breath sweeping over him. The memories were vivid and intense, the fear enough to grip even Aragorn, who knew them to be memories. How much more terrifying must they be to Faramir, who, in his fevered state, lay suspended in an eternal present, still haunted by wraiths? Aragorn murmured wordlessly, mind speaking to mind, trying to reassure the young man that his tormentors were no longer present.

Beneath was a layer of... what, precisely? A tangled web of emotions. Anger mixed with love, and overlain by the pain of rejection. A face wavered before Aragorn, familiar, yet older than he remembered, the figure of the whole man gradually taking shape. Tall, imposing, a hawk like nose, the grey eyes of Numenor, far-seeing, yet with their sight drawn awry. The black hair was shot with grey, where long before Captain Thorongil remembered only its inky darkness. The brow – which had been smooth – was now etched with lines, the burden of leading a people through desperate times with little hope of relief. But the aloofness, the unwillingness to listen to council which was at odds with his own beliefs, the quickness to dismiss those around him as fools and weaklings: that much Aragorn's younger self remembered. And it seemed that the man through whose mind he now wandered had been on the receiving end of that aloofness, that dismissal almost all of his life. With almost physical force, Aragorn was suddenly hit by the strength of the patient's response. _He wished for me to have died in my brother's stead. Well, I cannot die for him, but I can die as he did..._ Again, Aragorn whispered silent words: _No, your father was tortured beyond his strength, strong though he seemed. Those were not his own words, but the words of despair, despair wrought in a mind assailed by an enemy beyond his strength to resist. Come back to us, come back and remember your father in the years of his strength and courage, before the fey mood took him._

Finally it seemed as if the voice, which thus far had only echoed in his mind, started to take form, and his interlocutor allowed him to approach at last. Aragorn saw the shadowy figure of the younger man, some leagues off, standing in a dream landscape. In the far distance were towering, shining figures beckoning to him. With a shock of wonder, Aragorn realised that the tallest of these was Mandos, calling to him. To stand in the presence of the Valar: Aragorn nearly lost his grip on the silvery thread he had set to hold him to the waking world. But then it came to Aragorn that the call was not a command, but a choice. _Come with me to your long rest, or stay, stay in the world you left behind,_ the voice seemed to say. Then Faramir's spirit-figure turned to look back, across the green plain of his dream, and Aragorn saw a second figure. Tall, slender, beautiful almost beyond imagining, like unto an elf-woman, and yet at the same time rooted in the earth of mortality, with shining hair of palest gold. For a moment, Aragorn did not recognise her, but then he realised that it was the woman he had just healed, the beautiful, despairing woman who had slain the wraith. Beautiful she was in the real world, but here within Faramir's mind, he saw her as the younger man did, transfigured by love into a being of beauty beyond compare.

It seemed that Faramir sensed his presence, for a light, carefree thought washed over him: _She is sunlight, and starlight, and all good things_. Aragorn's thoughts answered him joyfully: _She waits for you – she has great need of you, come back to her._

Within the dream world the dream figure of Éowyn turned and smiled smiled, then she too beckoned to Faramir, but it seemed that in the dream she could not speak. Aragorn found himself speaking for her, repeating his earlier call: _Come back to her, for she waits for you. Come back to the world of men, your life here is not yet done._ And at last Faramir answered him: _Who calls to me, lord?_ And the answer came: _Elessar, heir of Elendil, your king._

Then Faramir's voice came, “I come, my King.” And with that, the silver thread drew Aragorn back into the room, where he found himself gazing into a pair of grey eyes.

His first instinct was to tell Faramir that his love awaited him, that she slept but feet away, recovering from her wounds. But the younger man, having given almost the last of his strength in coming back from the brink of death, slipped once more into unconsciousness, but without the sheen of sweat of the fever and the deathly pallor. 

“He should sleep now – a healing, healthy sleep.”

“Then come, my lord and King,” said the Warden, “For there are others who need your care.”

Imrahil was at the rear of the party. As he reached the door, he cast a backwards glance at his nephew, lying with his dark hair spread across the pale pillows. For the first time in days he found himself able to smile. Against all the odds, both Faramir and the woman he loved had survived.


	20. Chapter 20

Éowyn woke to find herself staring at a low stone ceiling, barrel-vaulted in the white stone of Minas Tirith. She lay in a narrow bed, a feeble light creeping through the myriad panes of a small window. For a moment, she watched the light cast across her sheets, breaking into bands of colour where the edges of the glass panes splintered the light into tiny rainbows. At another time and in another place, she might have found it beautiful. She moved slightly, and a searing pain shot through her left arm. And all at once she was back on the battlefield, facing the evil darkness, feeling her arm shatter into pieces beneath his mace. Then suddenly, like a deluge of icy water, the knowledge that Faramir was dead hit her, and she choked with tears.

Someone must have been within earshot, because suddenly she heard soft footsteps echoing, coming nearer. She turned her head on the pillow, and saw a middle-aged woman in a drab grey gown come through the doorway. The woman approached, and laid a hand on her brow, then lifted her uninjured wrist and felt for a pulse – Éowyn suddenly realised that her right hand, and indeed the whole of her arm, felt icy cold and numb, a sensation strangely worse than the pain in her other arm.

“Lady Éowyn, you are in the Houses of Healing, in Minas Tirith. You were brought here after the battle. I am Mistress Ioreth, one of the Warden's assistants. Just lie still and rest – I will bring you a soothing draft to help with the pain and enable you to sleep.”

“No,” said Éowyn, trying to sit up. Her stomach muscles felt as though they wouldn't obey her. She rolled onto her side and pressed herself upwards with the cold, numb hand. _Odd_ , she thought, _It's almost like it doesn't belong to my body any more, like it is someone else's_. She realised her throat was dry and sore, but managed to croak out a few more words. “The battle? The Prince of Dol Amroth and his sons? The Rohirrim?”

“Rest easy, my lady.” The healer pressed gently against her shoulder as if trying to persuade her to lie down once more. “The battle was won. The Rohirrim arrived from the north at dawn, then, just as things looked hopeless, a fleet arrived on the river, bringing with it...” Her voice dropped to a whisper… “An army of the dead, fulfilling their oath to the heir of Elendil. He it was who healed you.”

Éowyn almost retorted _To what end?_ But then, flickering in the back of her mind, she recalled a half-made promise, a promise to be strong. To be strong for someone's sake… But whose? She couldn't remember, dammit. Collecting her thoughts she said, “And what of the Rohirrim? How fared they? Who were they led by?” She recalled her departure from Edoras, her uncle shrivelled and wizened, a shadow of his former self, crouched upon his throne. And the Worm, standing beside him, gaunt, twisted, malevolent.

“They were led by the king of the Rohirrim, my lady. It is said he led the charge and fought at the front of his cavalry, falling bravely...”

Éowyn found herself fighting back tears once more. These were the memories she had shut out, this was why she had faced the nightmare, fought the witch king. She saw her beloved uncle, not wizened but restored to his strength, yet shattered and in agony beneath his own horse. And she saw the fell beast of the air, swooping, ready to tear his body into carrion pieces. But she had triumphed at the last. , _No man may kill me_ , he had said. Yet she was no man, and she had killed him.

The healer patted her shoulder and offered her a cloth to wipe her eyes. Éowyn took several deep breaths, then said, “What of the rest?”

“Your brother survived the battle, my lady. He is now king of your people.”

“Where is he? Is he here?” Perhaps this was the half-remembered promise, the reason the heir of Elendil had drawn her back from the dead. Maybe she had promised to live on for her brother's sake. She knew it had been about something vital, but the more she tried to grope towards what it was she had promised, the more it seemed to elude her.

Ioreth rested her hand on her cold arm, in a gesture Éowyn realised was intended to calm her.

“My lady, they have ridden to war once more. Your brother left a letter for you – the warden has it, for when your strength has returned enough.”

“Then take me to the warden, madam. I would see this letter, and ride out to join battle myself.”

“My lady, you cannot. Your arm – you could not fight, you would not be strong enough.”

Éowyn's face set into a stern mask. “I managed to slay the wraith after he had broken my arm. I am sure properly splinted I will make shift somehow.” 

Ioreth looked at her with an expression of disbelief, then as if giving up the fight, said in a resigned tone, “I will take you to see the Warden. He will make the final decision, and I have no doubt, will not indulge you in this rash course of action.”

She helped Eowyn get up and put on a drab brown gown, which Eowyn assumed had been borrowed from one of the healers. Then Ioreth ushered her from the room, and the two women set off along the corridor, both maintaining a kind of mulishly obstinate silence. Éowyn followed the healer down twisting passageways and eventually through a small courtyard, then through an arched doorway into a hall. Ioreth, still without saying a word, strode across the flagstone floor and rapped sharply on a heavy oak door.

“Enter,” said a male voice.

Ioreth lifted the latch and pushed the door open, ushering Éowyn ahead of her, then followed her into a small study. The room was lined with shelves, containing books, glass jars full of strange specimens floating in liquid, bottles containing potions and tinctures, trays of surgical instruments. At a large desk, the Warden of the houses sat, writing in a leather bound volume.

“The lady Éowyn, sir, would like to leave the houses. She feels that if her arm is sufficiently securely splinted, she can follow the host of the peoples of the west, and ride into battle at her brother's side.” Ioreth kept her face absolutely impassive as she said this, staring at a spot on the wall just above the Warden's shoulder.

The warden paused, laid down his quill carefully on the inkstand, then surveyed first his assistant, then Éowyn. His face gave little away, only a slight lift of one eyebrow expressing any surprise.

“My lady, surely you must see the foolishness of this course of action?” the Warden said, with a calmness which Éowyn found infuriating.

“Foolishness?” she replied. “When we are all like as not going to die anyway within a few weeks? I would sooner die in battle taking the fight to the enemy, than die helplessly on the end of a spear when the city is overrun.”

“Have you no faith in your brother and the Lord Aragorn? They are brave men and proven warriors. Surely they would not lead out their armies to certain death. They may be gambling on a desperate throw of the die, but they did not strike me as suicidal,” the Warden continued, his voice still level.

“You are not a military man, I gather,” said Éowyn, irritation showing in her voice. “You do not understand that given the relative sizes of the armies of Gondor and the Riddermark, when compared to the hosts of Mordor, then certain death is precisely what awaits them.”

“I am a man of peace, my lady. As you rightly point out, I am not a military man. But surely a wise man does not engage in a battle he must lose?”

“But what is the alternative? It needs but one foe to breed a war, not two, Master Warden. And those that do not have swords can still die upon them. I should sooner choose to die in battle.”

“Your choices, however, may prove to be of little import. It is several days since the host departed, and you would not catch them in time, even if you were fit to wield a sword.”

“Armies move slowly. A lone horseman, much more rapidly, Master Warden.”

“Well, if I cannot sway you by appeal to your reason, since you are set upon a course of extreme foolishness, perhaps I can appeal to your sense of responsibility.”

“Responsibility? Towards whom? All those whom I count as my kin, my friends, my countrymen, my allies, all ride already towards certain death. What greater responsibility can I show but than to die by their side?”

“And what of your responsibilities as a woman?”

“As a woman?” Éowyn felt white hot anger rise within her. Here was another man who sought to cage her, simply because of her sex. “Have I not proven my worth in battle equal to that of a man? Did I not slay the witch king upon the field of combat? And yet you would have me… do what precisely? Spin? Weave? Perhaps work fine embroidery? While the city lies in ruins around us. Or perhaps supervise the running of a fine household in a city under siege with no provisions?”

The Warden gave a heavy sigh. “My lady, I refer to that which only a woman can do. Surely you have some care, some feelings towards the babe that grows within you?”

The room lurched sideways, the floor buckling beneath her feet. Éowyn swayed with it and had to place a hand on the chair back to steady herself.

“Mistress Ioreth, look to the lady...” But Ioreth had already taken several swift steps forward and caught Éowyn, helping her to sit upon the chair.

“A babe?” said Éowyn, helplessly. Yet even as the words left her mouth, she remembered the curious, misty grey wasteland of her dream-scape, the heir of Isildur leading her from the desolation at the brink of death, bidding her live on for the sake of Faramir's child.

“Surely you knew, my lady?” said Ioreth. “Your courses...”

“Have always been irregular, and I have long taken remedies to keep this from happening,” Éowyn replied.

Ioreth gave a snort. “Folk superstitions. You mean, you've been lucky.”

“Peace, mistress,” said the Warden, still in his annoyingly calm voice. “Now is not the moment for reproaches. The lady has had a severe shock. I am sorry – had I realised you did not know, I would have broken the news more thoughtfully. Your husband?” His voice ended on a note of gentle enquiry.

“I have no husband,” said Éowyn, shortly. Then realising that it was probably not in her best interests to present herself to the Warden and his staff as a wanton hoyden, decided to stretch the truth a little. “He is dead.”

“My condolences, lady. Recently?”

“Yes. He was mortally wounded on the retreat from Osgiliath.” To her horror, tears started to prick at her eyelids.

“Ah,” said the Warden. “Now I begin to see why you are so anxious to throw yourself into battle. But please, my lady, bide a while, let time take the edge off your grief. It will not ever make his loss diminish – this I know too well, being widowed myself – but other things will come to fill your life in his place, not least his child.”

Éowyn sat on the chair, her mind whirling. Eventually, her thoughts began to clear, and one issue began to come to the fore. _No, that could not be done… he would dismiss her once more, if indeed he even allowed her into his presence… but he must be told. He would probably reject her, might even deny the child's paternity entirely. But the child was the last of his line: he must be told._ Steeling her resolve, she spoke.

“The Steward of the City, Master Warden? I must speak with him. Could you send a messenger to him? If needs be, I will walk to the Palace of the Stewards myself.”

“That need not be, my lady. He dwells within this house, recovering from the wounds he sustained during the siege, and recovering from his fever. I believe at this hour he customarily walks upon the wall at the end of the gardens, looking out towards the East, praying for the hosts that march forth, and perhaps considering how best to defend the city should they fail.” The Warden cast his glance sideways to Ioreth, who nodded.

“That is indeed his custom, sir.”

Éowyn rose to her feet, still feeling somewhat shaky. “Would you be so good as to lead me to him?” She swallowed hard. This was not going to be an easy meeting. But… wounded? If that were so, she had underestimated the man. He had clearly played a more active role in the defence of the city than she thought. Perhaps this cast his decision to send Faramir to his death in a new light. She would never forgive him that – and never forgive him denying her the chance to ride by Faramir's side – but she could perhaps finally acquit him of the charge of cowardice. He had clearly been willing to spend his own life as well as that of both his sons; he had not, as she had thought, sat safe within his palace while all around him fought to the last.

The warden had moved round his desk and offered her his arm. Grateful for the support, she tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow, and he led her back into the passageway. This time, she found herself guided , not down the labyrinth of narrow passages that led to the cell-like rooms for the patients, but down a wider corridor that led to a vaulted entrance hall. He led her through a high arched doorway, the wooden doors thrown open to allow the spring breeze to blow inside, into a garden. It took her breath away – the unexpected greens, bright and vivid with the vigour of early spring, crocuses and snowdrops piercing the earth, a few almond trees with their early blossom like flowers of snow on their graceful branches. She blinked in the unaccustomed brightness. The warden took her along a gravel path, then to a narrow flight of stone steps which led up onto the wall.

There, thirty paces away, a man stood with his back to them. A tall man, broad-shouldered, with the stance of a warrior. His black hair blew from his neck, ruffled by the spring breeze – black hair with no trace of the mithril streaks she remembered so well from her first encounter with Denethor. And suddenly, she recognised that stance, knew who it was who stood before her, and her heart felt as though it would burst with a joy she had never thought she would feel again.

“Faramir!” Her feet had grown wings, she was flying across the stone pavement, seeing him turn, seeing his face as he recognised her. His face, as if lit by the rising sun, full of a joy that echoed her own. And he too had started to run, and halfway along the battlements, they finally reached one another.

_And he took her in his arms and kissed her under the sunlit sky, and he cared not that they stood high upon the walls in the sight of many._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That last sentence is, of course, Tolkien's. But how could I resist?


	21. Chapter 21

_Warm… Safe… A blessed absence of nightmares…_ Éowyn shifted beneath the covers, and felt an arm pull her gently into the curve of another body. In a huge flood, the deluge of emotions of the previous day came washing over her, beginning with the memory of the despair when she woke thinking him dead through to that moment in the garden where she had suddenly seen him in the distance, high on the wall above – a moment of disbelief, of shock, of joy, a complete mixture of emotions almost overwhelming in their intensity.

After his kiss, they had clung to one another like the survivors of a storm at sea. They spent the afternoon in the garden, talking, holding one another. There had been joy in being alive, terror at the thought of what had so nearly come to pass, sadness at the thought of those they had lost. And most overwhelming of all, Faramir's reaction to being told he was to become a father. For a moment, the all encompassing darkness of Mordor seemed cast aside in a blaze of sunshine, such was the bliss on his face. He had held her close and kissed her, looking stunned beyond belief and transported to a realm of delight. 

The day passed as they had sat together in the garden. They lost all sense of time, and when, finally, the sky had begun to grow dark, they had shared a meagre supper in the refectory of the Houses, then Faramir had led Éowyn back to the room he had been given for the duration of his stay. It had seemed natural that they should sleep together, share the bed – they hadn't even discussed it. There seemed to be an unspoken understanding that they could not be parted, even for a moment.

A quiet murmur into her hair drew her back into the present. She felt Faramir's breath on her neck as he nuzzled against her. Her arm ached dully, and she realised that the cushions Faramir had carefully placed under it the night before had now tumbled onto the floor. But apart from the dull ache, she could not imagine being more contented than she was now. There was the nagging knowledge, buried at the back of her mind, that the war was not yet over, and that it was a war they were unlikely to win, but for the time being she was content to live in the moment. She leaned back into Faramir's embrace. In response, he whispered, his voice still laden with sleep.

“I know I have said this to you before, but what a way to wake!”

“I never want to wake without you again,” she replied. His answer came in the form of a languorous succession of kisses planted on her shoulder. His hand snaked its way across her belly, lying there, radiating warmth into her skin. Éowyn found herself humming with contentment. As she shifted her body to snuggle in yet closer, she realised he was already half hard, the hardness familiar from so many morning waking up next to him. She also knew that he would be content to take his lead from her, letting her inflame his arousal or allowing it ebb away, as she chose. With a quiet smile, she rocked her hips back against his groin.

“Mmm,” came his response. His hand started to stray lower, his cock pressing insistently against her. She shifted her legs, letting him slide a knee between them, and tilted her arse. Another kiss on her shoulder, right at that angle where it joined her neck, where he knew she loved to be kissed, then she felt the tip of his cock pressing between her legs. As he slid against her, his hand found its way into the nest of hair at the top of her thighs, and his fingers began to stroke in a gentle rhythm in the spot he knew from long practise was just right. She knew she was smiling broadly now – she thought of this position fondly as a lazy holiday morning shag – one that they didn't often find themselves with the chance to indulge in. His other hand had somehow wormed its way beneath her body and now cupped her breast. She pushed back against him, encouraging him to progress from sliding against her to sliding within her.

All of a sudden someone gave a sharp rap on the door, then, without waiting for an answer, pushed the door open. 

“Morgoth's balls!” Faramir almost yelped, pulling back from her and tugging the covers over them. There was a crash as an earthenware ewer broke on the stone flags, and Dame Ioreth let out a shriek of surprise. Éowyn tried to burrow further under the covers. She took in Ioreth's look of complete shock, the woman's face reddening with embarrassment. For a moment all three of them seemed frozen in the most absurd tableau imaginable. Then the Healer gave a faint gasp and bustled from the room. In her haste she left the door wide open.

Faramir grabbed his shirt from where he had left it, part of an untidy heap beside the bed. He didn't bother to put it on, but clutched it in front of him as he took a couple of strides over to the door. Éowyn nearly giggled as she registered how undignified he looked, linen clutched over his groin, but his buttocks clearly visible from where she was lying. Hopping awkwardly to avoid the broken pottery, he slammed the door shut then dropped the bar firmly into place.

Éowyn by this stage had rolled onto her back and lay with her good hand over her face. “Béma! The Warden will be furious. What are we going to do?” She swallowed her next words, but couldn't help thinking _crawl under the bedclothes and hide for all eternity._

Faramir looked at her. Then suddenly he started to chuckle. “Oh Valar, poor Mistress Ioreth. She got quite an eyeful, didn't she?”

“Don't… it would have been bad enough if we had simply been cuddled under the covers, but they were all askew and it must have been quite obvious what we were doing...”

“What we were about to do,” corrected Faramir. “Damned woman and her damned timing. If only she'd left it another five minutes,” he added, with an air of chagrin. 

Éowyn finally started to see the funny side too. “Oh gods, five minutes later might have been even worse – I mean, imagine if she'd walked in when...”

Faramir gave a great snort of laughter. “Sweet Elbereth, you're right. You're not exactly quiet.”

“No need to look quite so smug. And you have been known to make the odd satisfied groan on occasion. But… poor Mistress Ioreth.” 

Faramir came over and perched on the side of the bed. “It can't have exactly come as a complete surprise to her – after all, she knows you're with child, and after our meeting yesterday, there wasn't any mystery as to who was the father.”

“You are really quite smug about having got me with child.” Éowyn looked up at Faramir's face. He still had that look of delight at the thought of their child, but also undoubtedly looked very pleased with himself, like a cock crowing in the knowledge that he alone rules the hen coop, or a stallion who has just covered several mares. This unexpectedly self-satisfied side to Faramir amused Éowyn greatly. And more than that, she had to admit, aroused her greatly, a situation not helped by the fact that he had now started to rub his hand in warm, insistent circles on her naked skin, working his way down from her shoulder blades towards the small of her back. He bent over her and kissed his way from her shoulder, up her neck, to the soft skin below her ear.

“I am not 'quite smug'. I am very smug. And you are very, very beautiful. And very, very desirable...”

“And you are very, very incorrigible. Hasn't being caught once already this morning done enough to damp your ardour?” Éowyn's laughter died away. “But seriously, what are we going to do?”

He sat up, looking suddenly thoughtful, and took her good hand in both of his. “Do you remember the least romantic proposal of marriage ever made?” he asked, a smile on his lips, but his eyes serious. Éowyn nodded. “You never did give me an answer, you know...” She stared up at him from the bed. Eventually she managed to speak, just one single word.

“Yes.”

Faramir's face lit up with a broad grin. He bent and kissed her, slowly and thoroughly. “Thank goodness for that. I was worried you might not be prepared to make an honest man out of me.” He brushed the hair back from her face and kissed her brow. “I think I need to ask the Warden if Lord Hurin of the Keys is still within the city. I am guessing he is too old and infirm to have ridden to war. He has the legal authority to marry us.” Faramir paused for a moment. “That is, if you are prepared to get married quickly and with little fuss.”

Éowyn shook her head, as if not quite believing how slow on the uptake Faramir could be. “I would marry you any way you pleased – with all pomp and ceremony, or over the blacksmith's forge, as we say in the Mark. I don't care. I just want to be with you.”

“Then let us dress ourselves properly, go and face the warden's censure, and see if we can make ourselves respectable in his eyes with the help of Lord Hurin.” 

“The warden will be most surprised… I told him we were already married.”

“And in my mind, I have long thought of us as such. This is merely a matter of arranging the legal niceties. And a way of ensuring...” Faramir gave a cheeky grin, “That once we are respectably married, in a manner acceptable to all, we can come back here, bar the door and finish what we started earlier, knowing that no-one is allowed to look askance any more.”

“I suppose we had better get up, then,” said Éowyn, and pushed herself into a sitting position with her good arm. She swung her legs over the side of the bed, got up and walked across the room to where she had left the drab brown dress lying over a small wooden chair. Faramir watched her progress.

“You know, you really do have a beautiful arse!” 

Éowyn looked over her shoulder and rolled her eyes, then turned back and started to put the dress on, stepping into it and pulling it up. “Dammit, I can't get this on one handed. You'll have to help.”

Faramir got out of bed. A couple of paces, and he stood behind her, where he took advantage of the half-donned dress to kiss her naked shoulder and run his hands over her spine.

“I said 'help', not 'hinder',” Éowyn said. Faramir made a noise vaguely like a very theatrical sniffle crossed with a sob. “If you're very good, I shall let you help me take it off again later,” she added, with a chuckle.

“I shall hold you to that promise,” he replied, and somewhat reluctantly, eased the dress over her injured arm, then started to lace it up.

~o~O~o~

Lord Hurin stood beside the fountain in the centre of the garden, law book in hand. Out of the corner of his eye, Faramir could see the Warden and one of the Rohirrim from the camp on the Pelennor, Marshal Elfhelm, who had been invited as witnesses. The Warden's thin lips were pursed; a look of faint disapproval still flitted across his face. The man had been taken aback to discover that Éowyn and Faramir were not, in fact, married. And shocked to discover that they had had the effrontery to share a room and a bed within the houses despite being uwed. Faramir had responded by saying firmly that he considered the customs of the elves, whereby one might, in time of strife, take another in marriage by the simple act of bodily union, to be binding on him as one of the heirs of the Faithful of Numenor. This ceremony, he added, was purely a matter of tidying up the situation legally.

The Marshal had seemed equally unimpressed by the situation. At first he had voiced his uneasiness at consenting to Éowyn's marriage in the absence of her brother, the King. However, Éowyn had rapidly silenced him by pointing out that since she was already pregnant, any attempt to raise objections was really a case of trying to shut the stable door after the horse had bolted. She had left unsaid the fact that there was in any case no guarantee that her brother would be coming back in order to consent to her marriage, though both she and the Marshal surely knew it. Faramir, as if sensing her change in mood, had silently taken her hand and held it, and it was this gesture, more than anything else, which had (however reluctantly) reconciled Elfhelm to the marriage.

Faramir decided the Warden's expression was best ignored. He turned instead to Éowyn, and his face lit with joy. She was still wearing the drab brown woollen gown that did not fit quite right, but she was breathtakingly beautiful, golden hair loose round her shoulders, gazing up at him with a smile on her face. He took both her uninjured hand in his, lost in their own little world.

Lord Hurin gave a cough, and reluctantly, they turned to face him. The words of the ceremony were short and to the point; clearly the keeper of the keys did not see the point in any sort of flowery ceremony given the circumstance. He merely ascertained that neither of them knew of any impediment to their lawful marriage, that each consented of their own free will, and that other parties were content to bear witness to the marriage. He pronounced them husband and wife.

The perfunctory nature of the ceremony did not even seem to register with Éowyn and Faramir. The two of them stood, hands joined, gazing at one another. With a strange jolt of other-worldly connection as if with some ancient, magical realm, the warden realised that for all his earlier disapproval, he was in fact witness to the joining of two fëar. The new steward had not been seeking an elaborate historical justification for his moral incontinence, but had simply been speaking the truth.

~o~O~o~

The next eight days were among the strangest of their lives. At one and the same time, they lived in a haze of happiness, but a haze overshadowed by the threat of terror beyond imagining. Always, the shadow lowered in the east when they looked out together from the walls. Yet somehow, in the garden of the houses of healing, they could forget for a short moment the threat that hung over them like a sharp, keen blade waiting to descend.

And as their days were split into two conflicting sets of emotions, so too were their nights. The warden had initially tutted over the prospect of having a couple share a bed within the houses, even now they were married, but since the world teetered on the brink, neither Éowyn nor Faramir was inclined to pay him any heed. In that narrow bed they found both bliss and comfort, moments of passion and long hours where they clung to one another, seeking to forget the sorrows they had borne in the soft, gentle warmth of one another's bodies.

Then at last, there was the cold, crisp day where they stood side by side high upon the walls, and the dark clouds parted, the sun shone through, and out of the golden light flew a huge eagle, bearing great tidings. Filled with joy, Faramir took Éowyn in his arms and kissed her. Éowyn, realising they stood on the wall in sight of the city below, whispered, “Man of Gondor, would you have your people say 'there goes a man who tamed a wild shieldmaiden of the north? Was there no woman of Gondor good enough?'”

“I would,” he said, smiling into her hair as he held her close. “But I hope that I have not sought to tame you, for none could do that, nor would I wish to try...”

“And I love you for it. But I am tired of war, and of fighting. It is time for both of us to turn to healing the hurts of our lands.”

“When the king returns, if he wills it, we shall move to my ancestral lands of Ithilien, and scour them of the darkness that marred them, and together we shall build a house, and plant a garden, and restore the villages and farms around.”

“Making a garden?” said Éowyn, with a smile. “Once that would have seemed a tame occupation. But after so much death and suffering, now it seems the best pastime I can imagine.” Her smile broadened into a grin. “Though I may miss the excitement of running from raging mumaks.” 

Faramir took her hand and led her down the stairs. Together, they walked across the grass lawn, past the herb beds and the rose bushes, planted for their calming scent but now only beginning to show the first hint of budding leaves. Towards the building stood an ancient, gnarled yew tree, and for the first time, Éowyn noticed something which stirred her memory – the twisted trunk was split by a huge crack.

Faramir's eyes followed her gaze, and he slipped his arm round her waist, drawing her close. “I seem to recall a wild shieldmaiden of the north who made improper advances to her captain in just such a tight spot as that.”

“So she did… and they had to run a whole mile down the track to the old woodsman's cottage before she could have her way with him...”

“And now the same captain has a room, and a bed, a mere twenty paces or so away. And the wild shieldmaiden is now his wife. Shall we, my love?”

~o~O~o~

Far below in the city, a group of soldiers, injured in the battles before the siege, but sufficiently recovered not to be confined to the houses of healing any more, sat on benches outside a tavern. The table in front of them bore many tankards, some empty, others pleasingly full. One of the men had spotted their Captain and his lady high upon the walls, and nudged the others. With whoops of glee, they had watched the kiss.

Now the youngest of them, Anborn, held out his hand, palm up. “Come on lads, pay up. I said he'd marry her right and proper, and he has.”

Mablung gave a laugh, and slapped some silver coins into Anborn's hand. “For once, I can't begrudge you the win, you lucky bastard.”

~o~O~o~

THE END

~o~O~o~


End file.
